


A Fairy Tale

by acaseofthemondays



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Beauty and the Beast AU, Darcy Lewis is Tony Stark's Daughter, F/M, Slow Burn, Steggy - Freeform, WinterShock - Freeform, super slow burn, the original version
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2018-11-15 17:02:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 84,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11235348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaseofthemondays/pseuds/acaseofthemondays
Summary: A wintershock story based on the original version of La Belle et la Bete with all the interfering fairies and none of the talking furniture.





	1. A Man Lost to Winter

**Author's Note:**

> So this came from a happy little plot bunny that got me as I was falling asleep and refused to release me. As stated before, this isn't the Disney version which was based on the super abridged version that become very popular but the original story that was significantly darker and fills in a lot of the plot holes that the Disney version has. [This post does a great sum up of the original tale.](http://emilysidhe.tumblr.com/post/159132596907/what-we-really-need-is-an-adaptation-of-the)
> 
> Enjoy!

Once upon a time, there were two princes. The eldest, Prince James, was tall and broad and handsome; Dark haired and light eyed with red, red lips. The younger, Prince Steven, was a small, frail boy with fair hair and a face that could have been carved by the angels. Though they were very different in stature, both were good and kind with the purest of hearts.    
  
When their parents passed away and James became king, there was a great celebration among the kingdom, for the princes were beloved by all. Nobility from all over attended the coronation, including members of the fae court.    
  
One such fairy, who was a healer by trade and went by the name of Erskine, enjoyed the celebration as much as everyone else and found the two young men to be worthy rulers. Prince Steven he found to be particularly good hearted and so as a gift to both of them, Erskine changed Steven's body to one just as strong and healthy as his elder brother’s. At long last, his body matched the passionate heart that beat within and the constant fear of him succumbing to illness no longer plagued the two brothers.    
  
Henceforth, they reigned together over their kingdom. And when War came to their land, they fought valiantly side by side, defending their people from evil forces that threatened to wipe them out.    
  
For a time, it was glorious. The two brothers fought fiercely and seamlessly together alongside their knights, and closest friends, and Steven’s beloved, Lady Margaret, who was fae and a fierce warrior in her own right. They were nigh unstoppable and fair Steven became so skilled in battle that he even surpassed his elder brother.    
  
But then his brother fell in battle and was grievously wounded. James was rushed away from the battlegrounds and sent to his castle to be tended to by the woman who had been their nursemaid as children, Madame Hydra.    
  
Madame Hydra was a beautiful woman and had been a dutiful nursemaid to the princes, but beneath her fair face and feigned warmth, she was bitterly cold inside. And in truth, she was a fairy, banished from their courts many years ago for her crimes against both fae and human alike.

Upon the return of the king to her care, despite his grave injuries, she found him to have grown quite handsome since last she saw him and fancied that she would make a lovely queen. She thought to seduce the king in his weakened state but knew that Prince Steven would never stand for the arrangement, his clear eyes always alert to the machinations of evil.    
  
So she sent a secret missive to the battlefields, stating that the king had died. This, of course, was not true in the slightest. He was indeed still gravely hurt, but he was a survivor by nature and would not succumb to his wounds.    
  
Madame Hydra had hoped that Prince Steven would race home to say his final goodbyes to his brother and that she might intercept him and kill him, thus leaving her free to seduce the elder brother in peace.

But Steven could not bring himself to return home. Instead, he threw himself into the worst of the battle, fighting furiously and recklessly.   
  
Though this was not as she planned, his behavior worked in Madame Hydra's favor. For on the last day of the war, Prince Steven came face to face with the leader of the dark forces: the dark wizard, Red Skull, and his fearsome, magical blade, the Tesseract.    
  
The two fought on the battlefield that day for long hours, both straining to gain ground, both intent on finally ending the other's life. It came to pass that the journey of their battle carried them to the center of a vast frozen lake. It was there that the fair Prince Steven struck the mortal blow against Red Skull.    
  
Silence fell, only disturbed by the howling of the wind across the naked ice, until Steven reached for the magical weapon that had wreaked so much destruction on his people and many other kingdoms. When he stood and held the weapon high, a great cheer went out from his soldiers and knights who had gathered at the lakes edge to watch the battle.    
  
But all was not well. The evil wizard, in his last gasping breath, had cast a curse on the weapon that would unleash all its power in one final strike that would obliterate all life in every direction as far as the eye could see.    
  
The sword began to shake in Prince Steven's hand and bursts of blue energy began sparking along its edge. The Prince knew that this could only be an omen of death and shouted for his friends, lover, and troops to retreat.    
  
Then, in a desperate attempt to save his people, he drove the blade into the ice beneath his feet with every ounce of strength he possessed until the thick ice cracked and split.    
  
And then, dear readers, as the ice opened beneath him, he let the freezing waters of the lake swallow him and the Tesseract whole, carrying them both to the deepest, darkest depths of the lake and saving his people from the bright blast of light that followed. 

He did not resurface, and his people mourned the loss of their prince, none more so than his beloved Margaret. 

Though they were victorious, his warriors returned under a pall of grief, flying the mourning colors as their banners. The kingdom was heartbroken over the loss of their golden prince, with the exception of the evil fairy.    
  
With the news of the younger brother's death, she began to immediately enact her plans to ensnare the king. She did her best to entice him, dressing in her loveliest clothes, speaking with flirtatious giggles, turning herself into one of the simpering girls that mortal men seem so often to desire. But she did not truly know the king, nor the depths of his heart, and her affectations went unnoticed or ignored until finally she became impatient and asked him to take her for a wife.    
  
The king was horrified. Not only was he still healing physically, but he was also nursing the wounds of his heart having lost his dear brother. He was in no position to be choosing a wife at that time. He was also appalled at the thought of wedding the woman who had taken part in raising him.    
  
He rejected her offer, which in turn enraged the fairy. Again and again she asked him to marry her, but he refused, and finally she revealed her true self to him and the power that she possessed.    
  
Though lovely in her human form, her fae form was far more grotesque. From her shoulders sprouted six more necks, and all seven grew long and serpentine and were topped by hideous facsimiles of her human face. Her mouth dripped with acid and her teeth grew sharp. Her eyes grew black and beady and her once soft, milky skin grew rough and scaled.

King James, with as much strength as he could muster, reached for his sword and slashed at the hideous fairy, slicing one of her seven heads neatly from its neck.    
  
The wicked fae merely laughed.    
  
"Oh my sweet king," she chuckled. "Don't you know? Cut off one head, two more shall take its place."    
  
Indeed, from the severed stump of her neck, two more hideous heads sprouted. The king shook with fear as her chorus of manic laughter grew louder.    
  
Finally she fell silent and a sense of deep foreboding swept through the castle.    
  
"You, who have denied me my triumph, I curse thee, King James! You shall become a monster for all the days of your lonely, miserable life until that time when you can find a woman who would agree to marry such a beast of a man. I bind your tongue that you may not speak of your plight. I break your mind that no woman could ever endure it. And your memory, ah sweet king, that I steal from you, that you may never remember the happy moments of your life. You shall not remember your shining brother, your family, your people who loved you. In truth, you shall not remember that you had ever been loved at all. This is my curse for you, sweet James."    
  
With a great hiss, she pressed her center head forward and seared a burning kiss to his forehead. A great noise rose and fell, like the roar of a hurricane, and then agony washed over the king.   
  
Burning cold, the ripping of flesh, his nerves afire, and a suffocating feeling like a hand over his nose and mouth. But these things were not so painful as the moment when his mind shattered and he lost every sweet or beautiful moment of his life. All the wicked fairy left were the dark moments, the blood and carnage of battle without the balm of victory, the pain of loss without the memory of what was lost. 

He was lost in his own mind, a vicious, violent machine of death. For decades Madame Hydra used him, wielding him as a weapon against her enemies, filling his mind with ever more blood and pain until one day Steven’s great love returned to the castle. 

In her agony, she had gone back to the realms of the fae and fought against the evil of both the fae and human worlds. She buried the pain of her loss and sought to find peace in fighting for justice. When seventy mortal years had passed, she felt she could finally face the brother of her beloved once more. She returned to the castle to find a man still young but broken, and not the elderly yet whole man she expected. His mind was a terrifying thing and his body had been grafted with a great, metal arm, his skin puckered and scarred at the juncture, and over his once beautiful face, there was only a black mask of metal and leather that had been melted into the skin there, permanently fused to him. 

Margaret could smell the dark magic surrounding James and was able to read the horrible curse that had been pressed into the fabric of his flesh. It broke her heart and she could not stand for the further abuse of the poor man. At once, she cast a spell that swept the king and his castle far away, enchanting it to be hidden from any and all that might wish to find it save those that Margaret sent there. Her spell ensured that Madame Hydra would no longer be able to find and use him in her violent campaigns. 

His own servants and people had long since fled his castle, so he resided alone in his madness. This, too, Margaret could not bear, so she recruited one of her most trusted fae generals, Coulson, and his small battalion to take over the care of the castle and its inhabitant until the time when the curse could be broken. 

Years bloomed and faded, and with each passing day Margaret, Coulson, and his people feared that the woman who would break the spell would never come. 

And the king, his screams continued to ring throughout the castle every night. 

For who could ever learn to love a man who had no memory of love and whose soul reeked of death?


	2. A Girl Born to Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Darcy stage left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a bit short but the next should be much beefier
> 
> tw for semi graphic childbirth descriptions
> 
> Love to my beta LadyA

Lady Margaret's long, pale fingers blanched under the onslaught of the other woman's grip and for the twentieth time in as many hours, she cursed that idiot princeling Anthony Stark and his wayward prick. She loved the boy, she truly did, but his behavior since he'd come of age had become self-destructive and unbecoming of a Prince of the Nine Fae Realms. His father ought to have a word with him, or several, but Margaret knew the odds of that were slim to none. The odds of him  _ listening _ were even less probable. 

She rarely attended births, as she was not that kind of fairy, but King Howard, for all his failings as a father, was her friend and she could not bear to let his first grandchild enter this world without the aid of the fae. And gods knew his son would not be showing his face anytime soon. 

No, the woman who labored next to her would bring his babe into the world without so much as an appearance from His Royal Highness. She didn't know whether to pity the mother or congratulate her on narrowly missing such misfortune. As Margaret's eyes drifted across the little bedroom to where the woman's husband stood wide-eyed and ashen, she thought perhaps both reactions were called for. 

The petite brunette woman let out a piercing scream and gripped her hand again with enough force to cause even her magic-laden flesh to tremble with pain. The husband (Erik? She never could get these human names straight) paled further at his wife's cries and pulled the little girl standing at his side so that her face was tucked into his thigh. The child couldn't have been more than six and looked so much like her dying mother that it pierced Margaret's heart. 

For the mother was surely dying. Very few human women survived the births of their half fae offspring. Only the heartiest ever lived and this poor woman was just  _ too small.  _

Gods damn that idiot prince! In the past, he was never so careless with his seed as he was with his affections. It was bad enough that he had to bed every single woman within ten leagues of himself, but now he'd bedded a woman with a family of her own already and his carelessness was about to rip an irreplaceable hole in their lives. 

The little girl, Jane, whimpered slightly as her mother let out a low wail, and if a tear slipped down Margaret's cheek, she could not be blamed for it. 

She squeezed back against the woman's hand, pleased when an equally strong squeeze came in reply. For all that she was a fragile little thing, she was a fighter, had fought tooth and nail throughout the long hours without giving up as so many of the mothers often did. 

Margaret peeked between the mother's legs, gently shuffling her legs apart to get a bit more light. There was blood, too much blood, but there was also the tiniest peek of baby scalp; thick, dark hair matted down with blood and fluid. 

Relief flooded through her as she replaced the mother's legs into a more comfortable position. She brushed her lips over the other woman's hand, pressing strength and magic into her skin. “Anna, darling, look at me,” she smiled, waiting for her glazed eyes to focus on hers. “There's a good girl. I can see the top of the head. You're almost there, you just have to keep strong and carry on. Come on, sweet girl, you've done this before, you can do it again!” 

Another wave of labor pains washed over Anna and with a great shuddering breath and groan, she pushed down hard. It was progress but it wasn't enough. 

“Again. Anna, you will not fail at this. Do you hear me? You are strong enough. You  _ must _ get this child out!” 

Anna nodded, gritting her teeth as the next pains hit and she let out an unholy scream as she bore down with every last ounce of strength left in her exhausted body. Margaret could have wept with joy when the infant's head fully emerged, but it was not the time for such nonsense. 

“Anna, the head is delivered, one more big push for the shoulders and then you're all done, I promise. Come on, dear, you  _ can do this-” _

And, miracle of miracles, she did. Margaret gathered the screaming, squirming infant in a clean scrap of linen, placing her in Anna’s already outstretched arms. Joy, pure and simple, shone from her face as she looked down at her new baby, inspecting fingers and toes and-

“A girl, another precious daughter,” she rasped out, her smile wide and trembling. She looked up to her husband and oldest child, holding out a hand to little Jane and beckoning her forward. 

Margaret stepped back, busying herself with the more messy aspects of attending childbirth. It was not a pretty sight and even more worrying than it had been before. She met Anna's shining eyes over the top of Jane’s head and a moment of understanding passed between them before Anna turned to her daughter, urgency coursing through her. 

“Janie, my sweet, clever girl, you know I love you so very much, yes?” She brushed one hand over Jane's hair, tangling her fingers in the ends. 

“Yes mama,” came the soft reply from a face that was mostly wide brown eyes. “I'm frightened, mama.”  

“Oh darling, I know. I know.” Anna closed her eyes, breathing through pain that went just beyond the physical and tore at her heart. “It's alright to be frightened. Everyone gets scared sometimes. You must only remember that the strong keep living, keep moving forward anyway. And you, my love, are so very, very strong. Never forget that.” 

“Yes mama,” Jane whispered, her chin trembling with the effort not to cry. 

Anna leaned forward, kissing her forehead, chin, and cheeks before looking to her husband where he still stood against the wall. At the silent beckoning in her eyes he came forward on shaking legs, gently urging his daughter to go fetch a fresh pitcher of water and clean linens. When he reached his wife's side, he knelt by the bedside, his blue eyes steady on hers. 

They were both silent until Anna shuddered and gasped out,  _ “Erik.  _ I am so  _ sorry, _ my love. It was a mistake-I made a mistake,” she cried out in anguish, wracking sobs pulling at her breast. 

Erik immediately reached out to his wife, cupping her cheeks in both large hands and pressing kisses onto her eyelids and cheeks. “Shh, shh, I know. I forgive you. I will always forgive you. I love you, Anna. Nothing changes that. Never.” 

She sobbed against him, pain and relief etched into the lines of her face. Their moment was only interrupted by her labor pains starting up again as her body prepared to expel the afterbirth. Anna's face scrunched up and she quickly shuffled her infant daughter into Erik’s hands. 

“Jane, Erik, I would be most grateful if you'd bathe the baby,” Margaret prompted gently before turning her attention back to the mother. “Alright, Anna, this is the easy part, darling. Nothing compared to birthing the baby, eh?” she asked with as much cheer as she could muster. 

Anna responded with a half smile and a grunt before expelling the afterbirth in two succinct pushes.

“Well done, Anna!” she called, reaching out to grip the other woman's hand in congratulations this time. 

But this time the grip was weak, too weak, and the flow of blood between the woman's thighs was too strong. “Anna?” she urged, looking up to see the woman sagging limply against her bedding. “Oh no no, darling girl, keep fighting for me,” she pleaded, fear and magic flooding her veins as she tried to staunch the flow of blood. 

But the woman had already lost so much. 

And Margaret wasn't that kind of fairy. 

And Anthony Stark was a heartless bastard for condemning this woman to death, leaving behind a widower and two motherless daughters. 

***

Margaret sat across the table from Erik, gently cradling the new baby into her side while they both sipped at the strongest spirits they could find. The undertaker had long since come and gone, taking Anna's body with him and leaving behind a distraught family. Jane had cried herself to sleep in her bed, wrapped tightly in one of her mother's old nightgowns. 

Erik’s tears had been constant, though silent, ever present on his prematurely lined face. His hair stuck out at odd angles where anguished hands had dragged at it. 

It was late, and long past time for Margaret to be leaving, but there was a conversation that needed to be had first and it was one that she dreaded. 

She cleared her throat, deciding that straightforward speech would be the best approach. “Erik,” she started, meeting his eyes solemnly and with as much compassion as she could. “You know the child isn't yours, don't you?” 

She was relieved when the man nodded, his eyes firmly planted in the hands folded in his lap.

“You know that she is half fae, then?”

Again he nodded, adding, “I had assumed as much. What with you being here for the birth.” 

“Well, that's settled then,” Margaret said with relief, rising from the table. “We shall be on our way.” 

For the first time in many hours, Erik snapped to attention, his eyes meeting hers with fire beneath the blue. “Excuse me? What do you mean ‘we’?”

Her nose wrinkled in confusion. “I'm taking the child, of course.” 

Erik sprang up from the table, anger coursing through him and surprising Margaret with its intensity. “You will do no such thing! I may not be her true father but she  _ is _ my daughter’s sister and my wife's child and therefore she belongs with  _ us.” _

“And you think that you can raise fairly the product of your wife's infidelity, without bias?” 

Erik deflated somewhat, his fists coming down to brace himself against the table top. “It doesn't matter what she was a product of, she's just a babe, without sin or fault. She did not ask to be born. And I  _ can _ and will love her as my own.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Lady Margaret, my wife was unfaithful, yes, but it was one moment of weakness and I am not so prideful that I cannot forgive her of it. I loved her. I love her still. But I have been a hard man to love, being lost to my machines and mind and the stars. I know that my...preoccupation often left her lonely. Her choices, wrong or right, were her own, but her loneliness was my fault. Let me make amends? Let me love and raise her child as if she were my own? Please do not tear apart this family more than it already has been?” 

Margaret eyed the man closely, seeing no artifice or ulterior motive in his gaze or words. She sighed and glanced at the sleeping baby in her arms, then leaned over the table to press her tenderly into Erik’s arms. 

He closed his arms around the babe, lifting his hand to cradle the back of her tiny head. “Thank you, my lady, thank you,” he whispered, his voice raw and tight with tears. 

Margaret nodded and hummed, pleased with this turn of events and then made a decision. She pulled a small mirror from the ether, placing it on the table between them. “You are to keep her, but I plan on keeping my eye on her as she grows. If I find your conduct as a father unfitting of her fae heritage then I will return to retrieve her. Hang this mirror above the mantle that I may use it to watch her from time to time.” 

“Of course, of course, my lady.” 

Margaret smiled again, a full one that reached her eyes this time, and made her way to the front door, followed closely by Erik. Before exiting, a thought occurred to her. “Have you decided on a name?” she asked. 

“Mmm, yes. I think I shall name her after my mother. Darcy,” he answered softly, tenderly. 

“Darcy,” she said slowly, savoring the name on her tongue. “Yes, a lovely name for a lovely baby.” Margaret looked long at the infant and came to a decision. She had never taken a godchild before, but she supposed that it was high time she do so. Leaning forward, she placed her right hand to the back of the babe’s head, whispering, “Darcy” in the native language of the fae. Her palm suddenly glowed a deep gold, nearly amber, against the dark baby curls and a searing pain shot deep in her chest as the babe’s name was transcribed upon her heart. 

“Blessings and good fortune to you all,” Margaret said quickly in parting, then turned away, transitioning to her eagle form in the blink of an eye and shooting across the night sky. 

There was a strong wind pushing from the south, which suited her just fine as she spread her wings wide, letting the currents carry her north. She may as well check in on James while she was nearby. It had been five years since she'd hidden him away in his castle with Coulson and his team. Perhaps he had found the woman meant to break the curse in her absence. 

At that thought, her heart shuddered in her chest, magic brewing and stirring along the runes that had so recently been carved there. Shock and pain nearly knocked her from the sky. Surely the babe wasn't….? But then again, strangers things had been known to happen when magic was at play. 

Turning her keen, amber eyes to the dark northern horizon, she drew her wings down sharply, shooting forward with grace and precision. 

There was much to consider and things she would need to discuss with Coulson now. Plans to be put into place. 

Perhaps all was not lost.


	3. The Sisters Selvig

_ ~ Twenty-five years later ~ _

The Sisters Selvig were known amongst their village to be a rather...strange duo. Of course, that was likely to do with breeding, as their father was well known to be a bit of a mad, bookish, stargazer himself. And then there had been the events a couple years back that no one in their tiny town would likely soon forget. The arrival of a great, blond behemoth of a man who raged like a lunatic about being a Prince of the fae and who swung a hammer like a god. 

The sisters had been the only ones in town who had been willing to take him in and, by all accounts, had tamed the wild man considerably. At least, he no longer ran about town threatening to smite his foes in the name of Asgard. In fact, he’d become a rather pleasant man, a favorite among the villagers, and a damn good blacksmith to boot. His smithwork likely had a lot to do with his favoritism. It had been many years since the town had a proper smithy and they were most pleased that they no longer had to travel four leagues to the closest village with a blacksmith shop. 

Yes, that Thor was a fine, strong, handsome man with a profitable trade. He would have made many of the village fathers quite happy if he’d chosen to court their daughters, but it seemed that the eldest Selvig girl had caught his eye and it did not appear that those eyes would be wandering any time soon. 

Which was just so  _ bizarre.  _ Not that there was anything physically wrong with Jane. She was quite lovely, both girls were, everyone would agree. She was petite, but strong, like her mother, and still in prime childbearing years...but that mind of hers was quite off putting to the majority of the town’s population. It was one thing for her father to be so content with his stars and his science and his odd metal instruments. The town had humored his eccentricities for decades, since he was but a lad, but to see those same traits in a beautiful young woman was disturbing and downright distasteful. 

As for the younger Selvig, she was brash and buxom and would have easily been a town favorite, particularly among the young men, had she not had that same penchant for intelligence as her elder sister. Of course, as different in appearance as the girls were, so too was their intelligence. While Jane’s was tucked away in her head, constantly spinning away behind her eyes and directed towards the heavens, Darcy’s tended to spill out from her sharp tongue and was generally aimed at whichever foolhardy boy had most recently tried to woo her. Most of the townspeople did not begrudge her this though, as the favored method of wooing that the young men tended to employ on her generally involved vulgar come ons and wandering hands. And as sharp as her tongue was, her right-hook was just as lethal. 

Yes, a very odd family, indeed. But, in the way that everyone has that one strange family member that they all humor, so too did the townspeople treat the women. So long as they stayed tucked away in their little home at the edge of town, the villagers would ignore their oddities and leave them in peace. 

And it was a peaceful existence for the two women. Aside from the disturbance of Thor joining their family two years ago and the loss of their dear father three years prior to that, Jane and Darcy lived quiet, happy lives. 

Jane spent her days tinkering with inventions and discovering the intricacies of the physical world and her nights she spent tracking the movements of the heavens. Darcy often assisted her elder sister in her tinkering, as she was quite good with her hands and with numbers, but her passions lay elsewhere. The younger sister was quite musically inclined and, in truth, a savant. From a very young age she had been able to sing beautifully and play any song on any instrument by ear. She spent much of her days, when not tending to the home and garden and making sure Jane stayed fed and clothed, writing music to play on instruments that, half the time, she had invented from the bits and bobs leftover from Jane’s lab or Thor’s workshop. 

Their lives were small and simple, but they were content and loved each other dearly. The sisters were sure that they would never be parted, that they should always live together in their cottage at the edge of the woods. 

This world is rarely so kind as to let its inhabitants live out their lives as they planned, especially when the fae are involved. The Sisters Selvig would soon learn this lesson.

***

It was a cloudless, dazzling spring morning when Darcy and Jane began to stir about their cottage. There was a certain air of excitement amongst the women as Darcy hastily prepared breakfast for her sister and her soon to be brother-in-law. Jane sat at the table, munching an apple as she scribbled down some last minute equation or another. Darcy nimbly snatched the parchment from her sister’s grasp before setting a steaming bowl of porridge in front of Jane. 

The elder girl tried to protest but Darcy had honed a glare that could quell even the most wayward of human beings, so her kind-hearted elder sister was no match for it. Though she did continue to grumble quietly under her breath about despotic younger siblings. 

Darcy swept a heavy curl off her brow and tucked the parchment carefully into Jane’s luggage that had been dumped unceremoniously on the kitchen table. 

“Jane, my love, you can complain all you want, but if you don’t eat now you’ll likely pass out and fall off the horse during your journey, and then where would we be? It’s a bit difficult to present prize winning scientific inventions and discoveries when one is out cold on the side of the road.” She planted a hand to her hip and eyed her elder sister until she had shoveled a good portion of the oats into her mouth. Satisfied with Jane’s progress, Darcy turned back to the kitchen fire to tend to the coals. 

Shortly thereafter, with a great stomping of boots and a genial smile, Thor bid entry into the kitchen. He bent to buss a kiss to the top of Darcy’s head.

“Shieldsister! Well met,” he greeted her in that jovial, booming voice of his. “Look what the hens have seen fit to gift us with today!” Thor pulled out the ends of his leather apron, showing Darcy the small clutch of eggs that he’d collected that morning. Darcy patted his cheek and thanked him before carefully gathering the eggs into her hands and setting them in a basket in the pantry. 

Thor made his way to Jane, his hands coming down to cover her shoulders before dipping and granting her a kiss of her own atop the crown of her head. To Darcy’s eyes, it looked rather like the lordly blessing of a king. Which, given Thor’s true heritage, was not all that surprising after all. 

The second kiss that he planted on her sister landed on her lips and was considerably less lordly. And quite a bit more damp. 

“Please Jane, Thor, not before my breakfast,” she chided, setting Thor’s breakfast down at his place at the table. The couple didn't comment, other than to flash matching churlish grins. With a roll of her eyes, Darcy sat down in her own spot at the table and tucked hurriedly into her breakfast. 

When the three had sated their hunger, the two women continued their somewhat frantic planning and packing of Jane's things while Thor dutifully followed their instructions, putting his ample muscles to good use in packing up the heavy equipment Jane needed. 

The day long trip to the capital city was thankfully an easy one, even for Jane’s notoriously distracted brain. The road leading out of the northern side of the village stayed straight and wide, leading directly to the capital gates, making it nearly impossible for Jane to take a wrong turn should she find herself in the middle of a scientific epiphany while on her journey. 

It was nearing mid morning when they'd finally managed to load the small wagon with everything that Jane needed to present her findings to the Astronomical Society. She near vibrating with excitement and anxiety as Thor hefted her up onto the wagon, setting her on the bench with ease and thrusting the reins into her small hands. 

“What if they reject my findings?” she asked, the words spilling out of her mouth.

“They were very receptive to the thesis you submitted, why should they reject you now, my love?” Thor’s big hands came up to cup her face, urging her down so that he could press his lips to her forehead. 

“Yes but I submitted that under J. Selvig. What if they reject my work when they find out I am a woman?” Her bottom lip blanched under the onslaught of her top teeth, a small crease appearing between her brows. 

“Should that be the case, send word to me immediately and I shall lay waste to their halls of Science and smite them with my hammer.” 

Jane's answering smile was small and fond. “Thor, you are mortal now and Mjolnir is just a hammer. You cannot just go about smiting people. It’s considered rude.”

“For you, my lady, I would tear down the sky, should you ask it of me.” His hair shone in the sun, nearly as bright as his smile. 

Jane patted his cheek, all the while blushing prettily, and leant down to kiss him goodbye. When he parted from her embrace, Darcy stepped forward, scrabbling up onto the wagon wheel so that she could receive her own tight embrace. 

“I wish we could go with you,” she said into Jane's shoulder. 

“Hush. I'll be fine on my own. And needs must, sister. Someone has to fund my research, after all.”

Darcy nodded against her and gave her one last tight squeeze before jumping down from the wagon. Jane was right, they needed the income that Thor’s smith shop provided and the money Darcy made from selling the surplus milk and eggs from their livestock. The townspeople may have found the sisters to be odd ducks, but they were more than happy to purchase the eggs and milk that Darcy brought to market days, above any other supplier in the area. It was a well known fact that Selvig milk was always the creamiest and their eggs always kept longest and tasted better. The sisters assumed that they had simply lucked out and raised well bred cows and chickens, but Thor had sensed the truth of it the first day they'd taken him in. 

He had recognized that Darcy was a halfling when first they met, his fae nature scenting it on her automatically. But the sisters seemed wholly unaware of Darcy's abilities along with the discrepancy in their parentage. He kept that information to himself, as it did not seem like his secret to tell, and since he could not divulge that truth, he certainly couldn't enlighten them to the fact that their cows milked so well and the hens would lay such lovely eggs simply because Darcy sang to them, the residual magic in her blood prompting the livestock to flourish. 

It affected her garden as well, both vegetable and floral, blessing them with great bushels of produce and some of the loveliest roses Thor had ever seen, enough to rival even the High Gardens of Asgard. And they would continue to flourish so long as Darcy kept up her habit of singing while she worked. 

Jane picked up the reins, ready to prompt the horse forward but paused in her action, turning in her seat to look back at her sister and her intended.  

“Would either of you like me to bring something back from the capital?” she asked them. 

Thor spoke up first. “All I require is your safe and expedient return, my lady.” 

Jane turned her attention to her younger sibling. Darcy tilted her head in thought.

“If you happen upon any red roses, I would love for you to bring one back for me. It seems that all my red roses have all recently gone up in flame due to an unfortunate explosion caused by some unknown entity,” she purred, her lips ticking up at one corner. 

“By the Realms, Darcy, it was just  _ one _ rose bush, you don't have to keep harping on it,” Jane replied with mild exasperation. 

“Ah yes, and it would not bother me so if I wasn't constantly losing my possessions to the flames of your genius. Or did you forget that half of my wardrobe was lost a mere two weeks ago? I could be asking for far more…”

“Alright, alright, I shall bring you a rose, you pest-”

“A  _ red _ rose, don't forget.”

“Yes, yes a  _ red  _ rose. I'll remember,” Jane shot back, flicking the reins at Darcy. 

Darcy grinned at her, her tongue peeking between her teeth before blowing her a kiss goodbye. Jane stuck her tongue out at her younger sister but followed their established tradition and made a show of catching her kiss in mid air and pressing it to her cheek. Jane shifted in her seat to give one last longing look at Thor and the horse shifted restlessly against its harness. 

“My love,” Thor rumbled softly, “be on your way, and may you find good fortune.” 

Jane nodded sharply and turned forward, snapping the reins. The horse and cart pulled forward with a jerk and Jane waved one last goodbye over her shoulder before disappearing around the bend in the road. 

Thor and Darcy stood side by side, watching her until they lost sight of her and then turned as one to return to their respective duties, Darcy heading towards the back garden and Thor towards his workshop. 

He paused as he set one foot over the threshold of his shop, turning to look back at the beech tree that loomed over the yard that they'd all just vacated. His eyes roamed the swaying branches looking for...something. But it would seem that the tree held nothing stranger than a nest of squirrels and the rustle of thousands of fresh green leaves. 

***

From her perch in the shadowed bowers of the ancient beech, Lady Margaret watched the once Prince of Asgard retreat fully into his smith. With a stretch of her wings she propelled herself into the air, climbing higher and higher until she spotted the retreating wagon and dappled back of the horse that drew it. 

_ A rose,  _ she thought.  _ Such a simple request, and how lucky that I know of a place where the loveliest of roses bloom.  _


	4. An Ill Fated Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane's got 99 problems and the Winter Soldier just became one.

It was well and truly official. Jane Selvig was good and lost without even the slightest idea of how that had come to be. She had followed the road exactly as she should have, had gone at a reasonable pace that wouldn't overtire the horse but would assuredly get her to the capital before dark fully descended. 

And yet, here she was, at least three hours past nightfall and still no sign of the capital city. With each mile that passed the road become less straight and less wide and even the  _ stars  _ were foreign to her. This coming from a woman who had studied the night sky from near infancy. 

Yes, well and truly lost, and getting further from her intended destination with each jarring turn of the wheels. She pulled the horse to a stop, loosing a screech of frustration and exhaustion. She admitted to herself that it was likely time to turn the horse around but with dawning horror she realized that the near suffocating press of the trees on either side of her path would make it physically impossible for her to turn around. This left her with the only option being to carry forward and pray that their would soon be shelter or a turning place up ahead. 

She pulled her traveling cloak tighter around herself against the quickly falling temperatures and snapped the reins against her horse’s back, prompting him forward with a click of her tongue. 

She carried on into the night for what seemed like endless hours and still she found neither shelter nor a convenient place in the road to turn around. To top her misery, she had run out of food, was desperately hungry, and the temperature had dropped so steeply that her teeth were chattering and her hands were frozen around their grip on the reins. She was on the verge of finally breaking down into tears when the trees widened up ahead, revealing two great iron gates in the middle of a high wall that seemed to extend for eternity on either side. 

She pulled the horse and cart to a halt, staring long and hard at the gates before making the decision to get a closer look. She had obviously stumbled upon some great estate and she was determined to gain access to a bed of some sort or a spot to stay warm, at the very least. 

She stood and hopped down from the driver's seat, crumpling to her knees when her stiff joints refused to take her weight. She cursed quietly at her own thoughtlessness, gripping at the ground for purchase as she pushed up onto her feet. It was at that time that she noticed that she had dug her hands into what was not a mound of dirt, but an untouched pile of snow. 

_ What in the- _

The whole of the road and forest immediately outside of the wall appeared to be covered in deep snow, the likes of which she would only have found in the depths of winter. 

How far north had she wandered? 

She dusted the snow from her numb hands and brushed it from the front of her clothes. Straightening, she made purposeful, if stiff, strides to the huge iron gates. Upon reaching it, she wrapped her little hands around the thick ironwork, peering in through a gap in the metal. In the moonlight, she could make out a vast, sprawling, manicured lawn that lined either side of the path that led from the gate all the way to what Jane could only describe as a castle. 

She took a deep breath, garnering her courage and strength to push at the undoubtedly enormously heavy gates. Throwing her full weight against them, she nearly toppled onto the ground again when the gates swung open with far more ease than should have been possible. They continued to swing apart smoothly on silent hinges until they had opened fully, the very picture of invitation. 

Jane blinked and turned to clamber back up onto her cart, urging the horse forward before she could lose her nerve. The path to the palace was impossibly smooth and the cartwheels turned over the earth in eerie silence. The path widened as they neared the front doors of the palace, opening into a massive cobbled courtyard. She pulled the horse to a stop on the cobblestones and climbed down from her perch. 

The horse sidestepped and shook out his mane with a nervous whinny. “It’s alright, boy. Just a big scary castle in the middle of the woods. Nothing strange about that,” she muttered, half to the horse and half to herself, and smoothed a steadying hand down his side. When he’d calmed beneath her touch somewhat, Jane stepped forward, slowly approaching the wide, stone staircase that led up to a pair of heavy oak doors. 

The doors must have been at least fifteen feet high and Jane felt even smaller than usual in comparison as she ascended the steps. She craned her head back, taking in the ancient oak timbers that made up the doors. She was unsure how to proceed. Did she knock? Was there anyone even  _ in  _ the castle that would hear it? Should she just push at the handles and hope they swung open as the front gates had? 

She dithered for a moment longer, shuffling her weight from foot to foot until the cold finally prompted her to make a decision. She raised her fist and struck the smooth surface of the right hand door. The sound was abysmally quiet and likely wouldn't have roused a mouse from slumber, so she pulled back her arm to try again, preparing to beat upon the door with the meaty edge of her fist instead of her more vulnerable knuckles. 

Before she could connect with the first blow, the door swung open and a man appeared in the opening. Jane blinked in surprise at the middle aged man, her mouth popping open. 

“Good evening, Miss,” he greeted with a bland, though kind, smile. “How may I help you?” 

Jane gave herself a shake and promptly found her voice at the prospect of having found a friendly face. “Oh thank the stars- I am so sorry to disturb you but I'm afraid I have gotten very lost. I was on my way to the capital and I cannot fathom how I wandered into this place but here I am and I am so very cold and  _ so  _ very tired and if you could spare me a warm place to sleep the night I would be undyingly grateful.” Jane hiccuped a slight sob and was quite embarrassed to find that she was now openly weeping.

In a rather fatherly gesture, the man clicked his tongue in dismay and lightly wrapped an arm around her shoulders, ushering her into the dimly lit entryway. “Don't fret, my dear. Come inside and let's get you warmed up Miss….?” 

“Jane,” she sniffed, rather pathetically. “Jane Selvig.” 

“Ah, lovely to meet you Miss Selvig. I am Phillip Coulson, the director of this estate.” He gave a short bow, giving Jane a good look at the top of his thinning hair. “Has your husband travelled with you as well?” He looked at her expectantly. 

Jane shook her head. “No husband. But my betrothed had to stay home to tend to his workshop.” 

“Ah, that's too bad,” the director replied with, to Jane’s mind, a touch more disappointment than was necessary. She gave him a wary look to which he hastily responded. “It is too bad that you had to endure this rough journey alone.” 

Jane nodded, somewhat mollified. Coulson led her through the massive hall that made up the entryway, guiding her to a small, unassuming door that was situated behind one of the two grand staircases that led to some upper part of the castle. It was obviously a servants’ entrance of some kind and led to a much smaller hallway with several doors lined on either side of it. 

Coulson pushed open one of the doors to reveal a small, cozy parlor. Stepping into the room, Jane gave a great sigh of contentment as the heat from the flames that blazed in the stone fireplace finally reached her. Coulson ushered her to an overstuffed chair that sat in front of the fire and Jane sunk into it with relief. 

“If you’ll wait here just a moment Miss Selvig, I shall have some refreshments sent to you while you warm yourself.” 

“Thank you, Mister Coulson.” She mumbled, already half asleep. She snapped to awareness when an errant thought occurred to her. “Oh! Mister Coulson, I left my horse and cart in the courtyard.” 

The director nodded. “Fear not, I shall have the horse delivered to the stablemaster to be fed and watered.” 

“Thank you,” she replied, sinking back down into the plush seat. She was asleep before he'd even closed the door behind him. 

***

“Excuse me, miss?” A clear, feminine voice filtered through the shifting shadows of Jane's dreams. She opened her eyes to see a lovely brunette woman standing before her and holding out a platter piled high with an even lovelier sampling of food. The woman's smile grew wider at the way Jane’s stomach gave a tremendous rumble. “Hello miss. Coulson sent me with some refreshments for you,” she said, setting the platter on the end table that sat next to Jane’s chair. The woman then unhooked a jug from her belt loop, setting it next to the platter. 

Jane muttered a hasty thank you to the woman before digging in earnestly to the repast. The woman chuckled and bobbed a curtsy before turning and leaving Jane alone in the room once more. Jane had just shoveled in the last bite of what was likely the most sumptuous meal she'd ever eaten and swallowed it down with a swig of the rich wine that the woman had left, when Coulson hurried back into the room. 

“I am deeply sorry about this miss,” he said breathlessly, “But I'm afraid you must leave at once.” He tucked his hand under elbow, tugging her insistently from her chair. 

Jane helplessly followed him up and across the stone floor to the door that led out to the servant's’ passage. “I'm sorry, have I done something wrong? I thought that I would be allowed to stay the night?” 

“Oh no, nothing at all,” he said with forced cheer. “It would just be best if we had you on your way.” 

They had nearly reached the great hall again when Jane heard a roar echoing in the distance. Someone, somewhere was either in a great deal of pain or very,  _ very _ angry, possibly both at once. Coulson paused at the sound, turning his head to the portion of the castle where it seemed to be resonating from, and then doubled his pace to the front doors once more. 

He practically shoved her onto the front steps, releasing her only to retrieve a bundle of fabric from a slight woman who stood silently on the steps, apparently awaiting their arrival. He unbundled the material, revealing it to be a furlined traveling cloak, heavy enough to keep her warm, and a pair of matching gloves. Coulson made quick work of putting them on Jane, and then took her by the elbow once more to where her horse and cart stood in the center of the courtyard. Her horse looked significantly more revived, despite the late hour and the long journey that they had only so recently taken, and his coat gleamed more beautifully than she thought she'd ever seen it. 

“I really am terribly sorry about this, Miss Selvig,” the director said as he boosted her up onto her cart. “But if you would be on your way, and quickly, it would be for the best. I assure you.” 

Before Jane could get in a response, Coulson smacked her horse on its ample rump and sent them hurdling forward out of the courtyard. 

Apart from the jingling of the harness and the confused swirling of Jane's mind, their departure was silent under the moonlight. It was the utter quiet that made the screech of an eagle enough to distract Jane from her thoughts, turning her head towards the sound. It was then that she noticed a beautiful hedge of well kept rose bushes that lined one side of the road. The moonlight shifted and brightened the spot, confirming that the roses were a deep red, almost black. 

Jane halted the horse and jumped from the cart, quickly making her way to the roses. If she had to endure such a strange and, quite frankly, rude removal, then she was at least going to make it worth her while. And even her untrained eye could see that whatever variety of rose this was, it was exquisite. Darcy would be delighted. 

Her eyes shifted from bloom to bloom, searching for the perfect blossom until at last she found one that grew in a spot above her head, just at arm’s length. She reached up, gingerly grasping the stem and, taking care not to prick herself upon the thorns, began yanking at it, attempting to tear it from the rest of the bush. Jane mentally cursed herself for not bringing along a knife or something which would have made her attempt to detach the stem significantly easier. 

Off to her right, she heard her horse give a shrill whinny. Before she could turn her head to investigate what had spooked him, an iron grip wrapped around the wrist she held aloft. With a gasp, she released her grip on the rose as she suddenly found herself spun around and face to face with a strange man, dangling nearly off the ground by the grip he still had on her wrist. 

“Thief,” he growled into her face. 

A wave of terror rolled through Jane's gut as she took in the man's appearance. He was tall and broad, obviously incredibly strong, with dark hair that hung to nearly his shoulders. His eyes were light and piercing as they bore into her but the lower half of his face was hidden from her behind a mask. She needn't see the entirety of his face to know that he was incredibly angry and Jane's mind scuttled back to the roar she'd heard earlier. 

She twisted in his grip but to no avail. “Please, please sir, I meant no harm,” she gasped out. 

Something in the man’s eyes cleared and he dropped his grip on her wrist, and would have sent her tumbling to the ground had he not immediately grabbed her by the upper arm and hoisted her upright. He tugged the hood of her cloak off her head with the other hand.

His eyes flitted around in his skull, taking in her face and hair before narrowing. “You're a woman.” 

“Y-yes?” Jane stammered. 

The man nodded, seemingly to himself. “I need…” he trailed off lost in thought, his clear eyes clouding and wandering before snapping back to hers. “I need a woman. You will stay here. With me.” 

Jane began to shake, nausea rolling through her belly. “No, no,  _ please,  _ you have to let me go! There is a man who loves me at home, we're supposed to be wed this autumn.  _ Please,  _ you have to let me return to him!” she sobbed. 

The man jerked his head back sharply. “You are betrothed?” 

Jane nodded emphatically, choking back her tears. 

The man then released his hold on her, shoving her away from him with enough force to send her stumbling back into the roses. Jane hissed sharply when an errant thorn scraped across her cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. The trickle of dark red against her fair skin seemed to capture her attacker’s eyes, mesmerizing him. 

“Why were you trying to steal from me?” he asked, some of the anger returning to his voice. 

“It was just  _ one _ rose,” she gasped out. “I meant no harm. I  _ promise!  _ I only wanted to bring a rose home to my sister-” Jane cut herself off, lips pinching together and eyes going wide but it was too late. 

“Sister?” he asked. “Is she married or promised?” 

“Yes!” Jane replied quickly. “Happily wed with two children.” 

The man's eyes narrowed. “You're lying.” 

“No! Really, she-” 

Jane was cut off when his hand darted out to wrap around her throat, squeezing hard enough to cut off the flow of her words but not enough to stop her breath. He leaned in close, nearly nose to nose with her. 

“Do not lie to me, thief.” He let the statement stand between them, his eyes boring into hers. Finally, he pulled back from her, releasing his hold on her throat and reaching above her head to pluck the wretched rose that had started all of Jane's current trouble. It was as his arm was stretched above her head that Jane noticed something rather odd about him. Well, more odd than what she'd already witnessed. 

Originally she thought that he had been dressed in battle leathers, with the exception of his left arm which was covered in shining armor, but as he lifted his hand to snap the stem of the rose she’d meant to take, she realized that it was not so. The arm was not covered in armor, for the arm itself was made of metal, formed from shifting plates of gleaming steel. Even the palm shone brightly in the moonlight. Had she not been so utterly terrified of him, she would have been absolutely fascinated by such a strange prosthetic. 

With the rose successfully separated from the bush, he placed the stem into her numb hands. 

“Take this back to your sister,” he rumbled. “And in three days’ time have her return it to me.” 

Fear froze the blood in her veins.  _ “No!  _ No, please! You cannot-” 

“This is the price you must pay for your theft! You  _ will _ send your sister to me, to live the rest of her years with me...or I will find you and I will destroy everything and everyone you have ever loved!” he thundered, crowding into her space once more. “Three days. Do you understand?” 

Jane whimpered helplessly. “How would she even  _ find  _ this cursed place?” 

“So long as she has the rose with her, any path she may take will always lead here. Now go.” He grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her roughly toward her horse and cart. 

Jane stumbled and then fled as fast as her limbs would carry her, practically flying into the driver’s seat. She cracked at the reins, urging her steed forward at a breakneck pace, careening past the open gates and hurdling down the path without a backward glance. 

The tears froze on her face yet she could not seem to stem their flow. She was left with an impossible choice and her heart ached under the weight of it. What was she going to say to Darcy? 


	5. In Which Darcy Meets the Soldier

Though Jane had traveled countless hours to reach that wretched, strange castle, when the sun broke over the horizon, the early morning light shone weakly on the familiar sight of her home. She did not stop to contemplate the discrepancy in the passage of time. Her thoughts were for Darcy and Darcy alone. 

The horse had barely stopped in the yard when Jane leapt down from her seat and made a mad dash to their cottage, shouting for her sister the whole way there. She was three paces from the front door when it swung open to reveal her little sister. Darcy gaped at Jane and then stumbled forward into her embrace.

“Jane, Janie, where  _ have you been?” _ she cried. “We were so worried, we thought you were dead!'

Jane’s brilliant mind latched onto the oddity of her sister's words, even through the haze of her grief. “What do you mean? I've not even been gone a full day?” 

Darcy's mouth hung open in shock. “Jane,” she began softly, “you've been gone for nearly a  _ month.  _ We thought you were dead or worse. Thor even tried to break into the fae realms to ask his father for his help in finding you!” 

Jane stared at her sister blankly, finally noticing the dark purple bruising beneath Darcy's eyes and the way her normally lustrous curls hung dull and lank against her skull. Her face was thinner and she had a frailty about her that often comes after a great amount of grief is endured. Jane lifted her hands, cupping Darcy's face, her thumbs stroking over her too-sharp cheekbones. 

“Darcy,” she said breathlessly, “There is so much we need to discuss. Where is Thor? He needs to hear this as well.” Jane turned her head, searching for the familiar sound of Thor working in his shop but finding only silence. 

“He's in bed still.” 

“At this hour? Is he ill?"

Darcy shook her head slowly. “Not in the way that you mean. He's sleeping off last night's ale. He has not handled your disappearance well.” Darcy blinked back tears, her eyes reddening at the edges. “Neither of us have.” 

Jane gave a soft, helpless cry and tucked Darcy's face into the crook of her neck, holding her baby sister fiercely in her arms. Darcy trembled in the embrace and Jane smoothed a hand along the back of her curls, turning her face to press a kiss to her cheek. 

“Come, Darcy,” she urged. “Let us wake Thor.” 

Darcy nodded, releasing her tight hold around Jane’s ribs, clinging to her hand instead, as she had not done since she was a little girl. Fingers interlaced, the two women entered their home, seeking out Jane's beloved. 

They found him sprawled haphazardly across Jane's bed, his clothes from the day before still on, hair dirty and falling from the braids that he traditionally wore them in. Jane could not help but notice that he stank to high heaven as well, the poor dear. Her nose wrinkled delicately as she leaned over him, taking him by his broad shoulders and shaking him in a decidedly indelicate way. 

She called out his name as she tried to rouse him, and then again at a much higher volume when he refused to stir. With the third shout of his name directly into his face, Thor startled awake, lunging upright and swinging massive meaty fists that Jane just barely missed. 

“Thor! It is me, calm down, my love,” she admonished. 

The man stilled, bleary eyes blinking slowly as he took in her face. 

“What torturous dream is this?” he slurred, hand reaching out to cup her cheek. 

Jane leaned into the touch, moved by his tenderness. 

“It's not a dream, brother. It's really her.” 

Thor’s eyes traveled to where Darcy had spoken from behind Jane and then returned to his beloved's face. He spoke her name on a broken sob and clutched her tight to his chest, burying his nose in her hair and rocking them both gently side to side. He took a deep, shuddering breath and then stiffened against her. He pulled back slowly, eyes wary. 

“Jane, you reek of the fae...what strange paths have you wandered of late, my love?” he asked gently. 

Jane bit into her lower lip, reaching out behind her to take her sister’s hand. 

“Darcy says that I was gone for weeks, but to my mind my journey only lasted a day and a night. How can this be?” she asked, turning to Thor expectantly. 

He sighed and took her unoccupied hand in his. “Time passes differently in the fae realms, and even more so where they press against the mortal world. Those who travel from this world into ours and back may find that they've lost time during their journey. Sometimes minutes, sometimes years.” He shrugged, at the end of his knowledge of such things. “If your journey only lasted a day and a night, surely nothing so perilous could have happened to you in such a short time, my lady?” 

“I wish that were so, Thor, with all of my heart.” Jane squeezed the hands that she held and with steeled resolve she told them of the grave misfortune that had befallen her on her journey. 

As soon as she had finished her tale, Thor sprang to his feet, retrieving his hammer from its spot beside Jane’s bed. 

“Who is this beast that would threaten my family?” he raged, nostrils flared and knuckles blanching with his grip on Mjolnir. 

“I do not know. He gave me no name. But he was fast, incredibly strong, and had the strangest metal arm,” she murmured, eyes distant. 

Thor stilled, the blood draining from his face. Jane saw the change in him and stood, her little hand wrapping around his wrist.    


“You know him?”

He shook his head. “I only know  _ of _ him. He is a ghost story, even among my people. The Winter Soldier, the personal assassin to Madame Hydra, a truly wicked fairy. The stories say that he was a man once, but she twisted in him into something...other...in her schemes for power. It has been over three decades since he has killed in her name, though. We had all thought him to be dead.”

Jane shuddered. “I assure you, he is alive and well…” she trailed off, eyes drawn to where her sister sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor. Darcy’s eyes traced the cracks in the floorboards, uncharacteristically quiet. 

“Darcy, it’s going to be alright,” Jane assured her, though the strain in her voice did not make it quite believable. “We will leave, we will run and hide away and-” Darcy held a hand up, stopping Jane’s words. 

Darcy turned sharp eyes to Thor. “Has he ever failed?” When he didn’t respond she asked again, “Has he ever failed in killing his target? Has anyone ever successfully hidden from him?” 

Thor couldn’t quite meet her eyes as he shook his head.

“Then I must go to him,” Darcy resolved, her voice a strained whisper. 

“Shieldsister, no,” Thor replied firmly, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. “I will seek out my father’s aid, there are magicks in my realm that might keep us safe-”

_ “Might,  _ Thor. Might. That word holds very little reassurance to me.” Darcy laughed bitterly. “And even if it that did work, your father refused to help you find the woman that you intend to marry. What makes you think he would give a second thought to helping  _ me?”  _

Thor’s mouth opened and closed as he searched for a response, but they both knew that Odin would not budge in his banishment and disowning of his eldest son. 

During the exchange, Jane had begun to freely weep. “So what do we do?” she asked dashing the wetness from her cheeks with shaking hands. 

Darcy swallowed hard, blinking back tears of her own and tilting her head back to gaze at the thatched ceiling. “I do as he demands. What choice do we have? It is better that I spend the rest of my days with that monster than to send us all to our graves.” 

Jane’s chin trembled and then she threw herself bodily at her sister, sobbing into her hair. Thor knelt down beside the two women, enclosing them both in his solemn embrace. He bowed his head over the two of them, and together they rode the great swelling waves of grief.  

***

Eventually, the decision was made that Darcy would depart the next morning, as she was not sure how much time might be passing in the Soldier’s castle and did not want to risk his wrath. Jane had protested, arguing that they should spend every last possible moment together during the next three days, but Thor had agreed with Darcy's wisdom. 

In truth, Darcy was also apprehensive of having to spend three days dreading her fate. She would rather it be done with, to know what torment to expect rather than the endless hours of worrying about the unknown. She had a vivid imagination that spewed forth suggestions of what lay ahead of her, each one more horrific than the last. 

She stayed close to Jane all that day, telling Jane everything that she needed to know in order to alleviate Darcy's impending absence. It kept her mind busy, and it was a necessary thing, but she wasn't sure that her sister absorbed much of the information. Thankfully, Thor was there, dutifully copying down her instructions for Jane to peruse later. 

Darcy made the decision to leave all her possessions behind, save for three all purpose outfits and her cold weather garments. What were things to her? All she really wanted was her family, but that could not be, so she would cry no tears over the items she left behind. She would save all her tears for mourning the loss of Jane and Thor.  

When at last night descended and there was no more they could do in preparation, Darcy lay down in the bed that she had slept in since childhood. Sleep eluded her, no matter how hard she tried to settle her mind. When she heard the rustle of small feet across her floor and felt the jostle of bony appendages, she welcomed the distraction from her thoughts. The two sisters clung to one another in the little bed, as they had not since Darcy had been very young and was still frightened of the dark. Once more the dark frightened her, and she was thankful for Jane's presence. 

They did not waste the night with tears, but instead shared favorite stories and memories of the other from throughout their lives. They spoke of their father and his love for the stars. They spoke of silly fights from their girlhood. They spoke of Jane and Thor's future, the wedding to be held in the fall, the possibility of children. 

“You know that you have to name your first daughter after me, don't you?” 

“Yes, yes I know,” Jane laughed, swallowing back on the sorrow that threatened to ruin the moment. 

“And on the bright side, with me gone now, the only creatures you and Thor will be disturbing with your atrociously loud lovemaking will be the chickens.”

Jane covered her face with a groan, the dark hiding her brilliant blush. “Are we truly that loud?” she asked, not sure that she even wanted to know the answer. 

“Jane, had the two of you been any louder, I was afraid that Father would rise from his grave just to scold you for waking him.” 

“Darcy!” Jane admonished, smacking her sister's shoulder with an open palm, then descended into a fit of hushed laughter. When her giggles subsided, she heaved a sigh and rolled closer to Darcy's warmth. “I'm going to miss you so much, little sister,” she whispered.

“And I, you, Janie.” She shifted until she was on her side, mirroring Jane, forehead to forehead and hands clasped with hers. It was in this position that their breathing slowed and they succumbed to their exhaustion. 

The morning of her departure was obscenely beautiful and completely inappropriate for the occasion. With very little packed and no appetite for breakfast, it took next to no time for her to ready herself for the journey. Her few possessions were bundled up in a little pack for her to carry on her back, as she would be walking to her destination. 

Thor had tried to insist that she take the horse, but Darcy refused. She knew that Jane and Thor would need it far more than she and good, easy-mannered horses like theirs were neither cheap nor easy to come by. 

And so it came time for her to depart, utterly alone. Thor said his goodbyes first, lifting her bodily into his arms, shaking as tears streamed quietly down his face. When he released her, Jane stepped in to take his place. She was in hysterics and incapable of speech, clinging tightly to her sister, fingers entwined in the ends of Darcy's hair. At last, Thor was forced to physically separate Jane from Darcy, scooping her back into his chest, his arms steel bands around her ribs. 

Darcy closed her eyes against the sight and turned on her heel. Jane's sobs followed her long after she was no longer in sight, until Darcy realized it was her own cries that she was hearing. She consciously forced her hiccuping sobs to subside. She would need all her energy to make the journey. She could not afford to waste any more on crying. 

Darcy plucked the blood red rose from where she had tucked it into the ties of her bodice. She spun it idly between her fingertips, wondering how such a beautiful creation could be the cause of such agony. She paused her stride, staring down solemnly at its perfection. Her fingers closed tightly over the stem, the thorns piercing the soft flesh of her palms. She closed her eyes, savoring the sensation of pain that was for once not coming from her broken heart. 

When she felt the first drop of blood drip from her wrist to fall to the earthen road, she opened her eyes. She gasped, her eyes flicking around to take in the view in front of her, for she was no longer standing in the center of the straight, wide familiar path that she had been on a few breaths ago. Now she stood in the center of a narrow, winding road that looked as if it hadn't been traveled in more than a century. The trees pressed close to her, shading her from the bright morning sun and giving the road a gloomy, lonely feel. 

She shivered against the cooler temperatures in the shade. She pulled her cloak closer around her and stepped forward into the unfamiliar.

***

Her feet and legs throbbed and ached mercilessly by the time she caught her first glimpse of the iron gates that Jane had described. It was fully dark as she pressed her palms against the ironwork, the only light coming from the sliver of moon and twinkling starlight. The gates swung silently out for her, gliding to a stop in the snow drifts on either side. 

Darcy stepped cautiously over the threshold, the heel of her boot crunching in the snow. When she was not immediately accosted by a strange, metal-armed man, she pressed resolutely forward on her journey. 

Despite her terror, she could not deny the sigh of relief that swept through her lungs when she finally lifted her hand to knock at the giant double doors. She was beyond exhausted and the entirety of her lower body felt abused beyond repair. The Soldier could slaughter her at that very moment and she would not care one wit so long as he let her sit down first. 

She was not greeted by the master of the castle, however, but by a balding, middle aged man. Upon seeing her, his eyes widened and he hastily flicked his gaze over her from the top of her head to her toes and back again. 

“I'm assuming that you are Coulson?” she asked curtly. 

He dipped his head. “Indeed I am. And you must be the sister of Miss Jane Selvig. I apologize, but we were not given your name Miss…?” 

“Darcy. My name is Darcy.” 

“Ah, a lovely name.” He smiled politely at her, and spread his arms wide, ushering her into the castle properly. “Welcome to your new home, Miss Darcy. If you will follow me, I will introduce you to the palace staff and then the Master has instructed that you join him for dinner.” 

Darcy stumbled at the news that she would be meeting her captor so soon. Coulson extended his hand to catch her elbow but she righted herself before he could touch her. She folded her arms tight around herself, and after an uncomfortable second, Coulson led her further into the castle. He stopped at the base of two great spiral staircases that lay on either side of the hall. Between the two staircases, a line of people had gathered, quietly awaiting her arrival. 

They had obviously practiced the presentation of the household staff, for when Coulson glanced at the assembled group, three dark-headed individuals stepped forward without further prompting. The first was a stone-faced, middle aged woman who, though small in stature, had the distinct air of a woman who regularly and successfully grappled with men twice her size. The lean, rippling muscles that couldn't be completely hidden beneath her black uniform were a testament to this as well. The second was a tall man with defined features that would have been handsome had he not been wearing a look of abject contempt for Darcy. The third was another small framed woman like the first, though closer to Darcy's age and with bright, kind eyes and an inviting smile. Darcy was loathe to admit it, but she rather liked the second woman already. 

“Miss Darcy, this is my second-in-command, and the head castle guard, Melinda May.” The woman in question stepped forward and gave a curt nod of her head before stepping back, her hands clasped formally in front of her. 

“This is her second-in-command, Grant Ward.” Coulson paused as Ward stepped forward, his eyes staring straight over head before stepping back. 

Coulson had barely crooked his finger for the second woman to step forward, when she bounced forward to clasp Darcy's hand in both of hers as Coulson introduced her. “And this is Ward’s apprentice, Daisy. She will be attending to you as a lady-in-waiting for the duration of your stay.” 

Darcy raised her eyebrow at that. They spoke as if she was meant to be a royal guest instead of the prisoner that she truly was. Coulson ignored her inquisitive glance and continued with his presentation. 

“With the exception of Daisy, you will be unlikely to interact with them as they tend to keep to themselves and their guard duties,” he continued with a wry grin. “However, should you need anything, they will of course accommodate you.”

Then, with a final nod from the director, May and Ward shimmered out of existence in a spray of colorful sparks. May’s was a deep navy, nearly black, while Ward gave off a shower of sickly green sparks. Darcy's mouth hung open unattractively as she came to the realization that the two were fae, and likely the whole household was as well. Daisy caught her eye, a mischievous smile on her face with a hint of tongue poking out between her teeth, then disappeared in her own shower of pink-orange sparks, reminding Darcy of a rather breathtaking sunset. 

Coulson then called forth two more from the line of people, the first being a statuesque blonde, and the second being a handsome brunet that was a tad shorter than the woman. 

“This is Barbara Morse, though she prefers to be addressed as Bobbi. She tends to the gardens and grounds of the castle.”

“So it's you I have to thank for trapping my sister with your beautiful roses,” Darcy interjected. 

The corner of the blonde’s mouth ticked up slightly, as did an eyebrow. She said nothing, merely nodded. Coulson cleared his throat and continued as though the exchange had not happened. 

“And this is Lance Hunter. He is Bobbi’s…” Here Coulson trailed off, eyes darting between the two who responded simultaneously, though with differing responses. 

“Assistant.”

“Husband.”

The man turned to face his wife, or potentially his overseer, mouth hanging open in dismay. 

“Your assistant?” he cried. “Is that all I am to you? A bloody assistant? And here I thought I was your loving husband of these last three hundred years.” 

“Hunter,” she replied lowly, lips pinched and eyes flashing with annoyance. “Our marriage ended decades ago. Stop pretending it didn't.” 

Hunter cocked his head to the side. “That right? Because it seemed like you were doing a pretty good job ‘pretending’ with me last night, Bob. Or should I say, ‘not pretending,’” he cooed with a vindictive smile and arched brow. 

_ “Hunter,”  _ she practically growled, leaning in and looking ready for a fight. Coulson cleared his throat and the pair turned chastened faces to him before disappearing in a cloud of burgundy and gold. 

“I apologize, Miss Darcy, for such vulgarity and unprofessionalism from my staff.” 

Darcy waved away his apology and bid him to continue his introductions. Her feet were nearly killing her and she had never been one for propriety in any case. 

He next introduced a young man who went by the name of Robbie and was apparently the stablemaster. He was slim and attractive, as all these creatures seemed to be, with a warm complexion and dark hair and eyes. After Robbie, Darcy met the castle seamstress and clothier, a woman who went by the name Raina. She was lovely, with dark ringlets and large, brown eyes and a smile that seemed to hold secrets just out of sight. 

The last two unknown occupants in the room were identified as a single unit by the name Fitzsimmons. Or perhaps one was Fitz and the other was Simmons, Darcy was not entirely sure. The woman had warm, brown eyes and a pleasant smile, while the man had short cropped sandy blonde curls and lovely blue eyes and probably the most curmudgeonly attitude she'd seen on a man that wasn't over eighty years of age. Though, being fae and considering their propensity to live for millennia without aging, he very likely could have lived long enough to earn his grumpy demeanor. In either case, the two seemed inexorably linked, finishing each other's sentences and moving in unison. 

“Jemma and Leopold Fitzsimmons,” Coulson clarified. 

“No. No don't call me that,” the man insisted. “You can call me Fitz.” 

“Ugh, Fitz. Don't be rude,” the woman, Jemma, interrupted. “She's only just gotten here and you're already being unreasonable.” 

“Unreasonable? Me? I'm the only reasonable person in this whole damn castle. Without me, this place would be nothing but rubble and ash, and you know it.” He tucked his hands onto his hips, looking for all the world like an affronted grandfather. 

Jemma plastered on a patient smile and turned to address Darcy. “If you will please forgive my partner, he's not used to company. Well, none of us are, really. It's so nice to see a fresh face,” she said, smile widening. Darcy's returning smile was hesitant, but genuine. 

Coulson took over the conversation once more, indicating that Jemma was both the castle healer and resident chef. Fitz took the opportunity to interrupt the director to expound on the virtue of something called pesto aioli, which Jemma was apparently a master at making. Darcy found the exchange rather sweet, though she could see the interruptions were beginning to wear on Coulson’s calm demeanor. He continued on quickly to inform her of Fitz’s position in the castle as the head engineer and stonemason and then immediately dismissed the two before they could further interrupt him. 

“Is that everyone, then?” Darcy asked, a hopeful note and exhaustion coloring her words. 

“Well, you’ve yet to meet Mssr. Antoine Triplett, as he is busy with his duties attending to the Soldier, but he is a friendly sort and I imagine you will run into him eventually.” 

Darcy nodded but didn't respond. For all the relief that she felt at no longer needing to stand and meet new people, she was suddenly struck with dread at the mention of the Soldier and the reminder that she would be in his presence within minutes. 

Coulson, seemingly reading her thoughts, gave her a sympathetic smile and tilted his head towards the closer staircase. 

“If you'll follow me, the dining hall is just this way. I'm sure you're famished by now,” he said as he began to climb the marble steps of the staircase. Darcy was helpless but to follow him. Near the top, he paused to look back at her. 

“Would you prefer a change of clothes and a chance to refresh yourself before dinner?” 

Darcy thought for a moment, but ultimately shook her head. She could hardly swallow past the sense of dread within her and could not fathom postponing the inevitable much longer. Coulson accepted her answer with a nod and continued forward onto the upper landing.

She was struck again by how bizarre her treatment had been since she'd arrived. She'd fully expected to be greeted by the Soldier in the courtyard and promptly thrown in the dungeons. The way Coulson and his staff addressed her though, it almost seemed as if she was the new lady of the house. The thought was possibly even more frightening than the idea of spending the rest of her days rotting in a dungeon. 

She must have begun shaking rather violently at some point because the director glanced at her and then turned to face her in alarm. “What's wrong, Miss? Are you unwell?” 

Darcy loosened a laugh that bordered on hysterical. “I am hungry and exhausted and frightened beyond measure. What do you think, Mr. Coulson?” 

The man did not respond, simply watching her with sympathetic eyes. 

Darcy sighed and closed her eyes against tears that threatened to rise. Opening them, she asked in desperation, “Why am I here? Please, I-I don't understand any of this. There is magic here and fairies and a man who is a murderer and a myth and  _ why _ does he want me here? I thought I was to be a prisoner, and yet you treat me like a highborn lady. Why? What is my purpose in this place?  _ Please,  _ Mr. Coulson, I must know!”

Again his eyes held compassion for her, but he shook his head no all the same. “I am deeply sorry, my lady, but I'm afraid I am unable to answer your questions without...dire consequences. Please know that if I could, I would tell you everything.” 

Darcy did not quite believe him, despite how earnest he seemed. “Just show me to the dining hall, please,” she sighed with a shake of her head. “I just want to sit down.” 

Coulson bobbed his assent and scurried forward down the hall with her following close at his heels. He finally stopped outside a gilt door and stepping inside, she found a private, well appointed dining room.

A fire crackled cheerfully in a stone fireplace that Darcy could easily have walked right into without having to even think of ducking her head. In the center of the room a long wooden table that could have comfortably fit six people was piled high with sumptuous foods and drink. Coulson stepped to the chair that sat at the head of the table, pulling it out and indicating that Darcy be seated. She wasted not a moment, sinking into the plush seat with what was likely an unseemly moan of relief. 

Coulson made a brief announcement informing her of what was on the menu for that evening, but Darcy only half listened, too engrossed in unlacing her boots and getting the wretched things off her abused feet, posthaste. When she'd at last got them fully off and kicked with contempt as far under the table as she could manage, she looked up to find that she was alone. She stood immediately, racing to the door she'd entered from and grasping the handle, only to find it locked. 

A prisoner then, and not a lady, though her cage appeared to be gilded. 

She limped back to her seat, reached for the largest cup that she could find and the strongest smelling spirit she could find and began to get as rip roaring drunk as she could possibly get. The wine she chose was rich and went down smoothly, much smoother than anything that could have been made by human hands. 

After her first cup, she found that her fear had receded and in turn her hunger decided to make itself fully known. She dug into the variety of meats and cheeses that littered the table, followed by some kind of fruit that she'd never even seen before, let alone tasted. It had a dark purple skin with pale yellow meat and a large pit and it was absolutely divine on her tongue. She was tempted to eat the entire bowl that rested on the table, but she'd over indulged on other stone fruits before and knew well the disastrous aftermath, so she restrained herself to two. 

She was on her third cup of wine and had finally stuffed herself to the brim with fine foods when she realized that there was only one place setting at the table. No place setting for the Soldier and no Soldier in sight either. 

She slumped back in her chair, puzzling over his continued absence and vacillating between relief and curiosity. She fiddled with her empty cup, rolling it between her palms as she stared into the fire. She very nearly nodded off until she caught the shift of shadows out of the corner of her eye. The shape of a man seemed to shift into being from behind one of the pillars that lined the walls, and she briefly wondered how long he'd been hiding there, watching her. 

These thoughts were swept aside as soon as he stepped into the firelight and his arm gleamed at her with menace. Her heart seemed to sink to her stomach and then leap to her throat the next instant, pounding furiously within her. She sat up in her chair, fingers clasped tight enough to blanch her knuckles against the sides of her cup. The Soldier stopped his slow steps at her movement and stood staring at her, or possibly through her. His steel-blue eyes seemed to have trouble focusing and it was terribly unnerving. 

In the well lit room, she could see that he wore the mask that Jane mentioned and the metal arm was just as terrifying as she'd described. His hair was of a similar shade to hers, though the texture differed and it hung slightly passed his chin, cut jaggedly as if he'd done it himself. With the exception of his metal arm, his upper body was covered in a thick leather jacket of some sort, with straps that ran horizontally down his front from his clavicle to his navel and buttoned along his right side. His legs were clad in black canvas pants that clung to his thighs and tucked into the tops of heavy, black leather boots that reached to his mid-calf. 

In short, he looked utterly terrifying and, had she been the kind of lady that fainted easily, Darcy would have been unconscious on the floor by that point. As she was not, she stood on justifiably shaky legs to greet her captor. 

The wine helped considerably in this show of strength. 

“So you're the infamous Winter Soldier. The man who kills in one breath and threatens and kidnaps innocent women in the next.” She was rather proud of the amount of contempt she'd been able to infuse her greeting with. 

The man's eyes cleared and focused on her face, and his stance seemed to shift just the slightest to something more defensive. 

“Yes,” was all he replied, and even then it rolled off his mouth like a question. His eyes lost their focus again and Darcy, spurred by desperation and liquor, lost her patience. 

“Why am I here?” she snapped. “What is it that you want from me?” He merely cocked his head to the side, studying her as if she was some unknown creature. 

Darcy's hands clenched into fists by her side. “Are you going to kill me?” It was barely a whisper but he must have heard her all the same for he jerked his head sharply in the negative and stepped closer to where she stood at the head of the table. He had almost reached her when her courage faltered and she stepped back a pace, a single hand outstretched as if that would be enough to ward him off. He stopped though, eyes glancing down to her palm and then back to her face. 

“I need a woman,” he rumbled. His voice sounded harsh with disuse. Or overuse. 

Darcy began to shake. “And what, exactly, does that mean?” she hissed. 

“I don't know.” 

Her eyes widened in disbelief. “You don't- you don't  _ know?  _ What do you mean, ‘you don't know?’ Did you just wake up one morning with a craving for an unattached female?” She was shouting by the end of her questions and the man flinched at the heat of her voice. 

“I don't know,” he repeated again, though there was a touch of annoyance to it this time, either at her or himself. 

“Oh this is just-just wonderful! You've terrified my sister, threatened our family with death, and are keeping me here for the rest of life and you don't even know  _ why!  _ This is so damned typical-” 

“Marry me,” he interrupted. 

Darcy's mouth hung open as she stared at him.  _ “What?!” _

“Would you marry me?” he repeated, though this time it was phrased as more of a question. He seemed as surprised at the words as she was. 

“Marry you? Are you out of your mind?” she screeched and he flinched at her words. “Why in all the realms would you even ask me- Oh! Nevermind. Let me guess.  _ You don't know,”  _ she sneered. 

She glared at the Soldier, her chest heaving with every breath she took. She was fairly shaking with rage and  _ oh, _ how she hated that horrible man. He had taken  _ everything  _ from her and now he had the audacity to ask her to be his wife? She would rather die. 

With that notion in her head and a raw mixture of rage and wine filling her belly, Darcy reached for the knife she'd used at dinner. She stepped away from the table and towards her captor, blade in her hand and murder in her eyes. The man who, despite his menacing image, had been fairly tame so far, seemed to change the instant his eyes spotted the knife in her hand. His posture shifted between one breath and the next, becoming something truly feral and terrifying, his eyes narrowing into slits of ice cold fury. 

He moved too fast for her eyes to capture. Long before she could drive her weapon into his chest, she found herself spun around and bent over the table, her wrists restrained in his metal hand against her lower back, his other hand grasping her hair to press the side of her face into the wood, and her knife clattering on the marble floor. 

The front of his thighs pressed against her rear and she could feel his chest against her back as he bent low to growl in her ear,  _ “Don't... _ do that again.” 

Darcy shuddered and closed her eyes against the fear vibrating through her and souring her gut. She knew what came next from monsters like him. She bit into her lower lip, nearly breaking the skin as she waited for him to flip up her skirts and hurt her. The seconds ticked past and she remained clothed, though she could hear him breathing heavily behind his mask close to her ear. Finally she cracked her eyes open, peering up from the corner of the one closest to him to see him staring down at her intently. 

“What are you doing?” she asked in a strained whisper. 

“I don't know.” His voice was even quieter than hers and his eyes looked lost. 

“You're not going to...to violate me?” Her voice shook and she swallowed back the tears that clogged her throat, praying that his answer would be no. 

At her utterance, he jerked upright with a gasp. “What? No!” He seemed appalled that she would even suggest it, which Darcy found ironic coming from an assassin. “No,” he reiterated firmly. “I'm not going to hurt you.” It was the most sure of himself he'd sounded all evening, though it did Darcy's nerves little good. 

She flexed her wrists and hands that were still in his bruising grip. “You already are,” she murmured. 

He inhaled sharply through his nose, releasing her hands and hair immediately and stepping away from her. She rose slowly from her bent position, stretching out the stiffness in her wrists and neck before turning to face him. 

“What. Do. You. Want  _ from me?”  _ she asked once more through clenched teeth. She was at the end of her emotional rope and she could not take the mystery of him any longer that night. 

He drug a hand through his hair, his eyes flicking around and giving him an unhinged look. He curled in on himself, backing away from her slowly and mumbling, “I don't know,” repeatedly to himself, looking for all the world like a cornered animal. 

And then he was gone, turning on his heel and running for a door that had been hidden behind the pillar he'd first appeared from.  

Darcy’s legs finally gave out and she sank to the floor in front of the fireplace. Tears sprung to her eyes and this time she did not staunch their flow, letting the potent mixture of relief and despair and anger rise up and swallow her whole. 


	6. The First Day of Many

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy's first full day, plus chats between the Soldier and his buddy, Trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know what Darcy's dress looks like, you can find it [in this post.](http://fashion-runways.tumblr.com/post/162711334361/elie-saab-at-couture-fall-2017) It is the one in the fourth row, third column. 
> 
> If you want to know what basically all of Darcy's wardrobe looks like for the entirety of this fic, just take a gander at them [here.](https://holdmecloseandfast.tumblr.com/tagged/fairy-tale-fashion)

Antoine Triplett felt the tug at the edge of his consciousness as the Soldier called for him. And with an edge of panic, if he wasn't mistaken. Trip, as he was known among friends, set aside the book he had been reading and disappeared in a spray of deep purple light. 

Royal purple, his grandmere had always insisted, believing that being half fae made him royalty in the mortal world. It was a sentiment that was shared by most of the fae world. His grandfather, a human, hadn't given much credence to most royalty and the fae in general,  and had taught him that the only value a man had was rooted in the kindness that he planted into the world, whether it be fae or mortal. 

Trip was inclined to agree with the man and his servitude to the Soldier was in direct correlation with that belief. As a boy, his grandfather had filled his head with stories of the Soldier from when he was just James, a good king but an even better man. 

When he'd gone to work under Coulson’s command, he had never thought to one day become the valet to the man from his grandfather's stories, but when he'd seen how horribly James had been twisted and abused, he could not refuse the position. It was the kindness he had decided to give unto the world. 

With a thought, Trip appeared in the Soldier’s chambers to find him pacing frantically from one end of the room to the next. 

“You called for me, Soldier? I had not expected you back so soon. Were you able to meet your new guest?” He folded his arms across his chest and waited for the Soldier to break his pace and muddle through his thoughts for his answer. Trip had seen him in this state before and after three decades of taking care of the other man, he knew that silence and patience were the best course of action. In truth, he was the closest thing to a friend that the Soldier had left, and knew him better than anyone. 

As expected, the Soldier made a few more laps, mumbling quietly to himself, before he stopped and turned abruptly to face Trip. 

“We met.” His eyes shifted a bit to the left, not quite meeting Trip’s. “She asked me questions.” He said it like the act was a grave attack upon his person.

Trip tried his best to reign in the desire to laugh, smiling gently instead. “That's a good thing, don't you think? She wants to get to know you better. Sounds like a great start to me.”

The Soldier fidgeted in place and then began pacing again. “She asked me why she is here. Why I need her.” 

Trip sighed and moved from the spot where he'd been lounging against the door, moving over to sit at the little table in front of the fireplace. 

“Well, why  _ do _ you need her?” he asked. 

The Soldier slowed his pacing momentarily, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. “I'm not sure, I just know in my bones that she's supposed to be here for….something? I think I'm supposed to marry her?” A line of confusion appeared between his eyebrows. 

“Well, I wouldn't tell  _ her  _ that. At least not right away,” he chuckled. 

The Soldier stopped in his tracks and Trip glanced up from the table to meet his gaze. If he was not mistaken, there was a hint of shame in their depths and the way he was pulling at his sleeve spoke of a man who was deeply uncomfortable. 

“Come on, man,” he groaned with a shake of his head. “How did that go over?” 

The Soldier’s throat worked and he shuffled awkwardly in place. “Not...not well. She tried to stab me...and then I pinned her to the table…” 

Trip dropped his face into his hands with a groan for a brief moment and then rose to standing. “We are going to have to work on improving your ability to interact with the fairer sex.” 

The Soldier stared at him blankly for a moment, his eyes losing focusing as they were wont to do. “I think it would be easier just to kill her.” 

Trip ignored the potential threat and chose to delude himself into believing the soldier was joking. 

“Well, for you, yes. You've absolutely no skill with women, it would appear. And if you are feeling compelled to marry this woman, for whatever reason...then we will simply have to work on your charm.” 

Even with the mask firmly in place, he could see the way the Soldier was looking at him, as if  _ he _ was the one with the addled brain. Trip sighed deeply, seeking patience. It was a very difficult thing trying to help someone break a curse when the parties involved were not allowed to even  _ know _ about the curse in the first place. 

“Don't give me that look, Soldier. You just need practice. An extensive amount of practice. Lucky for you, women love me and I can teach you how to woo this one, with ease.” He smiled brightly at his charge, hoping his positivity would rub off on the grumpy beast of a man for once. 

Unfortunately for Trip, that was not the case. He could see the clarity of the Soldier’s mind slipping away fast in favor of the vacant look he often got. He would be essentially catatonic for the next few hours, so there was little to be done but to get the Soldier dressed and put to bed. 

Trip sighed once more, though in sorrow this time. Such a sad, broken man with a crumbling mind. It reminded him mostly of his grandfather in the last year before he died. It hurt him to see someone suffer like that.

With a slow approach and gentle hands so as not to startle his charge, he carefully removed the outer garments from the Soldier’s body. When stripped to his small clothes, Trip retrieved the salve that Jemma had concocted to help soothe the persistent ache from where the metal arm was grafted to his body. He rubbed the ointment in with firm strokes of his palm and fingers, watching the Soldier’s expression to make sure he was not putting too much pressure on the joint. The Soldier remained expressionless except for a brief flutter of his eyelids in relief. 

When he'd finished that, Trip eased the other man to the bedside, urging him to sit and then lay back in the bed, before covering him up. The Soldier’s eyes closed as Trip lowered the flame on the bedside lantern, out of habit perhaps. 

Trip, satisfied that the Soldier was settled for the night, turned to walk away but was stopped in his tracks by a soft utterance from his charge. 

“Thank you, Gabriel,” he said on a sigh. 

“What did you call me?” he whispered urgently, but it was no use, for the man in the bed had already fallen asleep.

 

***

 

“Gabriel? You're sure he called you Gabriel?”

Trip nodded eagerly. “Yes, sir. I'm positive.”

Coulson blinked slowly back at him. “If he’s calling you by your grandfather’s name, this can only be a sign that the girl’s presence is already weakening the curse.” 

He gripped Trip by the forearm, an ecstatic grin forming on his face. 

Unbeknownst to the two men, a third was tucked out of sight in the hallway where they were gathered. As soon as their conversation had ended and the two had left the dark hall, a flare of sickly green light glimmered and then died out behind the curtained alcove where the third man had been a few moments before. 

 

***

 

Darcy was a slow riser by nature, but their tabby cat had always made a point to stomp across her ample chest in the wee hours of the morning, thus defeating her natural inclination to stay in bed for all eternity. That and the thrice damned chickens. 

When her bleary eyes opened, it was with some surprise that she found her bedroom flooded in the bright light of late morning. This was followed by the sinking realization that her room was not actually  _ her  _ room, but some grand, high born woman's bedroom. This was followed by the crashing of her memory and the last two days coming back to her. 

She groaned and flopped back dramatically onto her bed, arm thrown over her face to block out the sun and her memories. That was what was expected of damsels in distress, was it not? 

She was most certainly distressed. Though she supposed she ought to be elated that she wasn't dead. Yet. 

Whatever her fate might be, at that moment she seemed to be alone and left at peace, and thoroughly rested at that. She kicked her covers away and rolled gracelessly from the exquisitely soft mattress. Softer than anything she'd ever slept on. 

Following her nose, she found a side table that was stacked with a lovely looking breakfast of eggs, toast, fresh butter, berries, porridge, and a plate piled high with sausage. She sat eagerly in the plush chair that accompanied the table and dug into her breakfast. She had seen enough lean years in her life to know better than to let a hearty meal pass uneaten, no matter the circumstances. 

With her belly sufficiently filled, Darcy slowed down to better take in her surroundings, starting with the exquisite nightgown she wore. She briefly pondered how the castle residents had moved her and changed her clothes without waking her but quickly marked it down under  _ magic _ in her mind and let the concern sift itself out from all the rest.

The gown itself was simple in design, the only embellishment in the form of a teal, velvet ribbon that gathered the neckline and kept it from slipping down over her shoulders. The fabric of the gown was unlike anything she'd felt, the weft and warp so fine that she had to bring the material to her nose to catch a glimpse of the closely woven threads. It made for a lightweight fabric that billowed and swirled around her form prettily but still somehow kept out the cold wonderfully. 

She made a quick spin in front the mirror that leaned against one wall of her room, marveling at her own appearance and the fact that there existed a mirror of polished glass large enough to show the whole of a person all at once. It must have been terribly expensive. The nightgown, too. 

She spun once more, admiring how the fabric clung to her rear in the reflection of the mirror. An outburst of giggles from the direction of the bed stopped her mid-twirl. Her hands leapt to clasp at her chest above her frantically beating heart and her eyes narrowed as she took in Daisy sitting at the foot of her bed and trying to clamp down on her laughter. 

Darcy's mouth pinched in displeasure as her heart rate slowed. 

“Is it not customary to  _ knock _ before entering someone's private chambers, or are fairies exempt from such customs?” 

Daisy's brown eyes sparkled with mirth. “I won't apologize for barging in, because I'm not sorry. What I've just witnessed has made any err on my part completely worth it. You are adorable.” 

Darcy huffed and pushed her tangled curls away from her face, then turned to face her reflection in the mirror once more, choosing to ignore the intruder. Daisy caught her eye in the mirror. 

“Besides, it's nothing I haven't seen before,” she said with a wink. 

“Ah, so it was you who put me to bed last night,” Darcy replied lightly. 

Daisy's features darkened somewhat. “Yes. I couldn't just abandon you to the unyielding stone floor as your bed. Especially after such a horrific meeting with the Soldier.” 

Darcy's hands paused where they'd been fiddling with the ribbon at her chest. “You heard about that?” 

“There aren't many of us living here and very little changes from day to day. You will find that gossip travels very quickly amongst us when it is available.” 

Both women fell silent and Darcy stepped away from her reflection to make a slow circle around the room, her hands trailing absently over the assortment of fine furniture and heavy tapestries that lined the stone walls, keeping the chill of winter at bay. Her fingertips snagged on one particularly large and intricate tapestry. Her eyes strayed up to focus on the story depicted in its threads. 

The heavy fabric was a riot of colorful threads that swirled and focused around two young men, one dark headed where the other was yellow haired. They were tall and broad with piercing blue eyes as they stared out from the cloth. They stood together, shoulder to shoulder and wore crowns of gold and silver. A gold circlet for the blond, and an intricately woven silver crown for the brunet. 

Something about the scene pulled at her and her hand drifted up of its own accord to brush along the faces of the two men. She felt Daisy approach her, stopping to stand at her side. 

“Who are they?” Darcy asked, her eyes flitting over the handsome features of the dark haired man. 

Her question was met with a soft sigh and she turned her head, catching the sadness in Daisy's eyes. 

“Two brothers from a royal line long dead.” 

“They were beautiful, or the artist was very generous in their likeness,” Darcy murmured, her gaze returning to the blood red threads that formed the full mouth of the brunet. 

“Very beautiful, once upon a time. The tapestry does not embellish their beauty.”

Darcy dropped her hand and turned to face the other woman. “The way you speak...I take it that their ending was not a happy one?” 

Daisy's lips pulled up slightly at the corner and her eyes darkened. “No. It was not,” she replied and then moved abruptly away from the tapestry, clapping her hands together and effectively breaking whatever spell had fallen over them. 

“Come on, girly. It's near noon and you're still in your nightgown. Let's get you decent and I'll show you around your new home,” she added cheerily. 

The words did not have their desired effect, as tears leapt to Darcy's eyes at the mention of home. Daisy's eyes went wide in alarm and she rushed forward to lightly run her hands along Darcy's arms. 

“Was it something I said?” she asked in alarm. 

“This is  _ not _ my home. It never will be,” Darcy bit out between gritted teeth. 

Daisy realized her mistake and blanched, then pulled the upset young woman into her arms, whispering soothing words and apologies, stroking down the mussed curls at the back of Darcy's hair. 

Darcy was loathe to admit it, but she found that Daisy was rather apt at calming her and there was an ease of being and honesty about the other woman that Darcy responded well to. It did not feel like false comfort, but the condolences of a true friend, and while it did nothing to fix her predicament, it went a long way in soothing her heart to know she had at least one friend in the midst of her nightmare. 

Daisy pulled a handkerchief from her pocket that was the exact shade of a buttercup and brought it up to dab gently at Darcy's eyes. She cupped Darcy's chin, turning her face side to side and then giving a satisfied grin that made her dark eyes glow. 

“There, now. Can't even tell you've been crying.” 

A throat cleared delicately from behind the women. “I hope I'm not interrupting anything,” came from the seamstress, Raina, if Darcy remembered correctly. 

The brown-skinned woman was as lovely as ever and once again wearing a gorgeous gown that featured an embroidered floral pattern. She was a tiny thing, smaller than even Darcy, who was not all that taller herself, with large eyes that seemed to see everything inside a person all at once. She stood casually to the side of an enormous wardrobe that had not been there a few moments before.

“No,” Darcy finally replied. “You just managed to miss a truly magnificent weeping.” 

Raina paused, cocking her head to the side as if listening to something that others could not hear, and then responded slowly, as if savoring each word before it fell from her lips. 

“Ah yes, it was rather dramatic. I take it you have composed yourself enough to be made presentable?” She folded her hands demurely in front of her but the quirk of her lips was mildly mocking. 

Darcy did not know what to make of the woman, she only knew that she made her feel slightly off kilter and as if Raina knew something that she did not...and rather enjoyed the disparity in knowledge. Not caring for Raina's subtly mocking tone, Darcy’s response was decidedly prickly. 

“Yes, thank you,” she paused and then added snidely, “I'm surprised that someone of the fae would be so humbled as to take up work as a seamstress.” 

Raina's smile was sharp and for a moment Darcy would have sworn that her brown eyes glowed a pale yellow. “Oh, you would be surprised how...useful...my gifts are. I'm rather good with needles and other pointed things.” 

There was menace in her tiny demeanor and Darcy felt her hackles rise. Daisy stepped between the two women, set on de-escalating the tense atmosphere. 

“Raina,” she said firmly, a palm outstretched towards her, “put your needles away.” Raina cocked her head and nodded in obsequience, stepping back into a more polite posture. 

Daisy faced Darcy, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and gently tugging her in the direction of Raina and the wardrobe. “Just ignore Raina, the rest of us all do,” she whispered in Darcy's ear. 

“And that is your folly, little earthshaker. My loom never lies and has been ever invaluable to this battalion since Coulson took me in. Or have you forgotten that it was my Sight that saved you from your own murderous mother?” 

Darcy could tell by the way Daisy tended beside her that Raina had loosed one of the many secrets she kept hidden behind her smile, and one that cut uncomfortably close to Daisy's heart. 

“Raina,” Daisy said curtly in warning. Raina closed her mouth but her eyes were lit with triumph. 

Daisy shook her dissatisfaction away and brusquely swept the wardrobe open. Darcy was distracted from the tense atmosphere by the lush fabrics that seemed to burst forth from the wardrobe. Heavy silks, gauzy muslins, luxurious velvets and countless other textures in even more shades of vibrant color made up the gowns that hung within. It took Darcy's breath away. She didn't trust or necessarily like Raina very much but even she had to respect that the little seer was an artist when it came to cloth. 

The snidely triumphant grin Raina had worn before shifted momentarily to something that was warmly genuine and pleased by Darcy's unfettered delight at her handiwork. She stepped forward into Darcy's space and gently ran a hand through Darcy's tangled curls then let her hand drift down to tug lightly at her fingertips. 

“Pretty little halfling, let us see which dress calls to you.” 

Darcy came forward with the other woman, entranced by the colors so deep that they took her breath away. Raina placed her hand on the emerald green brocade bodice of one gown and gently urged her hand to drift along the dresses until she came to a stop, her fingers grasping of their own accord onto crushed velvet bodice that was a brilliant scarlet. 

In the next moment, the fabric disappeared from under her fingers, only to reappear completely wrapped around her body. Darcy gasped and startled but overcame her shock quickly enough, taking the opportunity to run her hands down the bodice and over her the skirt where it hung at her hips. It felt like a dream, heavy and sumptuous and vaguely erotic, though she was reluctant to address that errant thought. 

The bodice was a crisscross of velvet straps over heavy silk, ending in a belt that had a delicate, curling gold buckle. The skirt was full and the same heavy fabric that made up the base of the bodice, flowing down to the floor, unembellished save for the split in the skirts that had the proclivity to allow a scandalous peek of her leg to the thigh should she take a particularly large step. She supposed if they were going to dress her like a proper lady, she would have to inevitably learn to walk like one as well. It would be an annoyance, taking such tiny, delicate steps, but if it meant she got to wear things this lovely then it was a sacrifice she was willing to make. 

Raina stepped closer to her, a calculating look in her eye. She ran nimble fingers along nigh invisible seams along the bodice, releasing tiny sparks the reddish-purple of an old bruise. Every time a line of sparks appeared, the bodice would tighten or loosen in accordance to Raina's preference, with the end result being a perfectly fitted dress that hugged her firmly and hung just right. Raina leaned back on her heels, hands on her hips, and then a satisfied grin graced her features. 

“Lovely, so lovely. You wear my work so well, little girl,” she practically purred. She grasped Darcy by the hand again, this time leading her to the standing mirror. Darcy took in her appearance in the gown and she had to admit, it suited her quite well. Raina patted at her unruly curls and she watched in awe as they untangled themselves and organized into soft, lush waves that lay against her scalp and neck neatly and artfully. 

With a final, intricate flourish of her fingertips, Raina produced a gold comb from seemingly thin air and fashioned it into her hair. It glinted with bright rubies that matched well to her gown. When she stepped closer to the mirror she could see that  the rubies were arranged in the shape of a series of blood red stars. Darcy carefully ran her fingers over the stones and then down over her curls, careful not to disturb them. Her eyes followed the motions in the mirror but stopped when they landed on the reflection of her chest in the tightened bodice. Her mouth turned down in a slight frown.

She felt Daisy shift to her side and saw her lean her head on her shoulder in the mirror. “What's wrong, Darcy? You must know that you look absolutely beautiful?” She spun a curl around her finger and tugged on it, lightly teasing. 

Darcy's mouth quirked up in a lopsided grin. “Yes, I'm aware, thank you.” She paused and the frown returned. She lifted her hands to pat lightly at her breasts where they were pushed high on her chest and seemed precariously close to toppling over the top of her bodice. “I  _ am _ somewhat worried that I am in danger of embarrassing myself, though, should I happen to breathe with even a hint of enthusiasm.” 

Daisy giggled charmingly beside her and even Raina gave a brief chuckle. “Don't you worry about about that, sweetie. I promise you they are more secure in that dress than even your high necked farm dresses.” 

Darcy gazed skeptically at the soft mounds of flesh. “And how, exactly, is that possible?” 

Daisy caught her attention in the mirror, twirling the fingers of one hand as little orange specks of light swirled around the digits.  _ “Magic,” _ she said with a waggle of her eyebrows. 

Darcy rolled her eyes and pushed the other woman away with a thrust of her hip, knocking Daisy off balance. The moment reminded her sharply of Jane for a brief second and she pushed away at the swirl of emotion that it brought up. 

Raina then presented her with a pair of soft leather slippers and she was deemed presentable and ready for her tour of the castle and grounds. Raina went her own way and left the two women to their wanderings. 

Daisy led her at a meandering pace, spending the better part of the afternoon showing her the pertinent spaces within the castle, including the kitchen, common spaces, and library. Darcy did her best to memorize the layout of the castle, deeming it wise to know the way back to her rooms should she find herself without a guide at hand. She also took particular notice of all the best hiding places she could find during their ramblings. It seemed a good idea in case the master of the house decided she had outlived her usefulness.

The castle itself was quite beautiful, in an eerie, austere way. It was magnificently decorated, each room finer and more beautiful than the last, and it was obviously well taken care of, but there was the lingering feeling of spaces untouched by human hands. The undisturbed nature of the rooms and grand halls, arching doorways, and spiraled staircases sent shivers up Darcy's spine many times over the afternoon. 

Oddly enough, despite the abandoned feel of the castle, she couldn't quite shake the feeling that she was being watched. She found herself peering over her shoulder and pinning the shadows with her gaze, but to no avail. If she  _ was  _ being watched, the unknown individual was not making their presence known anytime soon. 

Daisy made for an excellent tour guide, patiently allowing her guest to linger as long as she liked over whichever room caught her attention. It was a very thorough tour, but Darcy could not help but notice that there was a particular staircase that they passed on several occasions but Daisy made no move to take her up. When she told Dacy that the tour of the interior of the castle was at its end and that they could proceed to viewing the castle grounds, Darcy placed a hand on the other woman's shoulder. 

“What about up there?” she asked, pointing at the overlooked passage. 

Daisy smiled at her thinly, already pulling Dacy away from the stairwell and towards the main hall. “Trust me, sweetie, you do not want to see what lies that way.” 

Her tone brooked no room for argument with a steadfastness that surprised Darcy. Daisy had a naturally effervescent personality, but it would seem that beneath the lighthearted demeanor, there was a foundation of stone. 

Darcy raised her brows, but held her tongue and followed the other woman's urging outside. They were met at the great double doors by Coulson, who greeted them cordially and then provided Darcy with a heavy, hooded cloak, sturdy boots, and pair of fur lined gloves. She tucked her skirts up to keep the silk from getting soaked in the snow and fastened he cloak from her throat to the tips of her black leather boots. 

Suitably dressed, they headed out onto the grounds, visiting briefly with Bobbi as she tended to her roses. They  _ were _ the prettiest roses Darcy had seen, even lovelier than the ones she'd produced in her own gardens, and there were hundreds upon hundreds of varieties and colors. She recognized several but the majority were foreign to her, growing in shapes and colors that her mortal eyes could barely even comprehend. 

There was one rose in particular that grew from a vine that was the deepest midnight blue. The petals were translucent, almost as if made from clear, living glass. She gingerly ran a fingertip along the edge of one petal, half expecting it to be hard and unyielding as diamond. She gave a sharp gasp when it was as soft and pliant as any other rose, and a shower of rainbows shimmered around it in the late afternoon sun. 

After the rose gardens, they stopped at the stables, pausing to help Robbie feed the horses their evening oats. At one point, Darcy found herself alone outside one of the stalls, barely holding her ground as a pleasantly fat bay mare buried her her muzzle into the bucket of oats in Darcy’s arms. She scratched between the mare's ears and stepped away before she was toppled onto her rear. 

She wandered back through the stables the way she had come, searching for her guide, only to catch sight of the woman pressing Robbie back into a wall, her fingers tightly grasping his lapels. In her all black leather breeches and tunic, Darcy briefly thought that Daisy was in the middle of shaking down the stablemaster for his coin purse. 

Darcy quickly readjusted her estimation of the situation when one of Daisy's hands darted into Robbie’s jet black hair and she shifted up onto her toes to press a searing kiss to his mouth. Dacy froze and then did an immediate about face, scurrying as quietly as she could to the opposite end of the stables to continue spoiling the horses. 

Her bucket had been fully empty for at least ten minutes when Daisy finally made a reappearance. 

“Oh there you are!” she blurted breathlessly. “I've been looking all over for you. I think we're done here if you'd like to go visit the greenhouses?” 

Darcy rose from her perch on a bale of hay, pressing the empty bucket into Daisy's hands with a coy smile. She reached out a hand, deftly removing several pieces of straw from the other woman's hair. Daisy's eyes went wide and her cheeks flushed slightly.

“Yes, lead the way to the greenhouses,” she chuckled, tucking her hand into Daisy's elbow. “Now that we've had such a...pleasant time in the stables,” she couldn't help but add. 

Both women were overcome with snickers that died and then were reborn with more ferocity when they passed an obviously shaky-legged Robbie. 

The greenhouses turned out to be mainly Jemma’s domain, where she grew the majority of the food consumed by the castle inhabitants. The rest of their food supply came from the livestock that freely roamed the grounds behind the castle and seemed to be under the command of Bobbi’s husband, or possibly assistant, Hunter. 

At least, that was what Darcy assumed when she witnessed the man running at top speed after an errant chicken that had a rather evil gleam in its eye. She had previously thought that she had heard every curse and colorful phrase that existed, but after listening to Hunter spew vitriol at the chicken as he ran, she found that her education had been severely lacking. 

Daisy and Darcy found themselves in hysterics, their peals of laughter ringing out across the snow covered grounds and causing a deep ache in their bellies. When their laughter subsided but the ache persisted, Darcy realized that she had worked up quite the appetite. The sun had begun sinking slowly towards the horizon and she realized that the afternoon had passed quickly and evening was fast approaching. Daisy caught her line of sight toward the sunset and seemed to register the lateness as well.

“Oh goodness,” she cried, “You must be half starved! Come on, we'd better get you inside to dinner.” 

They were met once more at the front doors by Coulson, who took her warm outerwear and handed her slippers back to her. She untucked her skirts, smoothing and shaking them slightly to remove any unseemly wrinkles. When she straightened, Daisy patted here and there at her hair, taming the curls where they'd become tangled under her hood and readjusting the comb against her scalp. 

Daisy then excused herself and Coulson raised his arm for Darcy to take. For a short while, she savored the pleasantness of the day, but her good mood soured when she realized that Coulson was leading her to the same dining room that she had eaten in the night before. Her fingers dug into his arm with what must have been painful strength, but he seemed unfazed, merely giving her one of his characteristic sympathetic, tight-lipped smiles.

It was like reliving a nightmare: the plodding journey to the dining room, Coulson opening the door for her and then closing her in. Though, this time, she was significantly better dressed for her nightmare. And unlike the night before, she was not alone when she entered the room. 

Ice ran in her veins when she spotted the Soldier sitting rigidly at the far end of the table. He watched her with unwavering eyes, his head jerking in her direction as soon as she stepped a foot into the room. She stood at the threshold, her heart fluttering in her chest like a caged bird as she contemplating whether she had the strength to break through the door that was at her back. Her hand drifted back, gliding over the solid wood and she brushed away that foolish thought. 

Taking a fortifying breath, she took one tiny step forward. When he did not immediately attack her, she took another, and then another, until she was only a handful of steps from her designated chair. She heard the scrape of his chair across the floor and her eyes snapped up, watching as he rose jerkily to his feet, presumably waiting for her to take her seat. She pulled her chair out, carefully lowering herself onto the plush seat. 

She caught the barest flicker of movement at the corner of her eye and then she realized he had somehow moved from the other end of the table to directly behind her. She stiffened, her spine like steel as her skin prickled with animalistic terror. She expected to feel the sting of a blade at her throat or perhaps his metal hand, but neither sensation came and he efficiently pushed her chair into the table.

By the time she had regained her ability to breathe, he was at the other end of the table, retaking his seat, his eyes not wavering from hers. They sat silently, neither breaking their gaze, the only sound coming from the crackling fireplace and the shallow breaths from Darcy's chest. 

She expected he would speak at any moment, and she dreaded what horrible thing he would say to her next. Would he reprimand her for her attempt on his life? Would she be punished for her aggression? 

The seconds eked on and yet he still would not speak. He stomach twisted and pinched with hunger, a rumbling growl interrupting the quiet of the room. Darcy's fingers clenched into fists in her lap as her already limited patience finally ran out. 

If he was not going to speak to her, then she damn well was going to enjoy her meal in silence. She broke her petulant glare, aiming it at her plate and gripping her fork determinedly. She piled her plate high and began eating in earnest, chewing angrily. Hunger tended to fuel her temper in even the best circumstances. The added stress of her sullen dinner partner did nothing to better the circumstances. 

She ate her full meal in silence, only glancing up on occasion and always finding his eyes on her, their intensity never wavering. She hated it, hated him, and stabbed at her candied pears with more force than was absolutely necessary. 

“Your lips-” he blurted out suddenly, seeming to lose his train of thought halfway through. 

Darcy paused with her fork halfway to her mouth, her gaze flicking up to his. What about her lips? He must have seen the question in her eyes and hurried to clarify.

“Your lips, they look...I mean to say…” he paused in his words and she could hear him swallow audibly. His eyes had lost some of their intensity as he spoke, flitting between her face and the table rapidly, then locked with hers once more, an air of determination in his gaze and posture. 

“Your skin! It looks so… _ soft,” _ he ended with a near sigh, the fingers of his flesh hand twitching where they rested against the table top. 

Darcy slowly lowered her fork until it hit her plate with a dull thunk. If she did not know any better, she would assume that the Soldier’s behavior and words were an attempt to  _ woo _ her. Or perhaps he just wanted to wear her skin like a cloak. In light of his marriage proposal the night before, it seemed that the former was the more likely of the two, not that it provided her with any relief. The food in her belly soured and she swallowed down her revulsion at the thought of his advances. 

She fixed him with a glare that had cowed many an unwanted suitor and rose swiftly from her seat. He seemed to realize that he had done something to upset her, as his eyes went wide and he flung his palm out. 

“Wait!” he called out and she paused in her exodus, sinking slowly back onto the edge of her seat. He was silent long enough for Darcy to lose the last of her patience and stand fully, with enough force to knock her chair back to clatter on the stone floor. He mirrored her actions, rising and blurting out, “Wait! Will you marry me?” 

Darcy could not believe the gall, the idiocy of the monstrous man facing her across the table. A growl rolled from the back of her throat. 

“No!” she hissed, emphasizing her ire with a slap of her palm on the tabletop. She spun on her heel and stomped away from the table, too fueled with indignant rage to be afraid of having the Soldier at her back. 

He did not remain behind her for long, his inhuman speed placing him firmly in place directly in front of her and blocking her path to the door. He stopped so close to her that she had to jump back slightly. Her slippers lost their purchase on the stone floor and she would have fallen back onto her rear, but the Soldier’s hands darted out to steady her. 

His flesh hand landed against her waist, the heat and weight of it palpable even through the heavy layers of her bodice. The horrifying metal hand landed at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, his thumb settling at the indent at the base of her throat. 

She froze under his hands, waiting for his metal hand to close around her throat and squeeze the life from her body. She met his eyes with a determined glare. If he was going to kill her, she was not going to let him do it like a coward. He was going to have to  _ watch _ the life leave her eyes. 

He stepped closer to her, the toes of his boots brushing the edge of her skirts. His hand at her waist tightened, pulling her closer to him. The metal hand slid up her throat and she braced herself for him to crush it. To her surprise, his hand traveled further along her neck until his fingers were cupping the base of her skull and his thumb brushed lightly along her cheek and jaw. 

Time slowed and stuck like honey. She looked into the blue of his eyes where they shone over his ever present mask, absently noticing the flecks of steely grey within them. His eyes did not meet hers, but slowly trekked over her features, catching briefly at her mouth and the skin of her throat. She could feel her pulse fluttering rapidly against his palm, her body screaming at her to run and hide. 

“She  _ is _ beautiful,” he muttered quietly to himself. It seemed as if he had forgotten that she was even present, that he held a pretty piece of artwork in his hands instead of a living, breathing woman. Something about that inflamed her ire and she finally regained her renowned acerbic tongue. 

“Let go of me,” she growled, her lip curling in disgust. His eyes snapped to hers and he seemed to finally remember that she was not an object but a thinking, feeling person. And an incredibly angry on at that. His fingers flexed against her and then he dropped his hands suddenly to his sides. 

She stepped back abruptly, fixing him with a final glare. “Don't you  _ dare _ lay your hands on me ever again. I may be your prisoner but I am  _ not _ your property.”

She gripped her skirts and swept around him toward the door, nearly ripping the handle off in her urgency. She was relieved when it was unlocked and hastened out of the room and towards her bedchambers. He did not follow her and Darcy was not sure if that was a point in her favor or his. She very nearly felt as if the fire of her anger would have been enough to burn him if he had tried to follow her. 

She made it to her room with surprisingly little difficulty and only got lost one time. Daisy was waiting for her in her room, her face arranged in a cheerfully expectant manner that quickly melted to one of resigned disappointment as soon as she saw the thunderous expression on Darcy's face.  

Though they had chattered together effortlessly the entire day, Daisy did not entreat Darcy into further conversation. She helped her dress for bed and bid her a hurried goodnight. 

Anger simmered under Darcy's skin and she did not find sleep easily that night. When she did sleep, it was fitful and disturbed by the distant sound of screaming. She pulled the covers over her head with a shudder, pressing the bedclothes tight around her ears to block out the unsettling sounds. 

 

***

 

While Darcy was racing away towards her bedchambers, the Soldier made his own escape up to the tower that held his private suite. Of the castle residents, only Trip and Coulson were allowed in that sector at their leisure. Jemma was also permitted there, but only at his command when he was in need of his treatments. 

As he entered his room, he found that Trip was already there waiting for him. He was in his favorite spot in a chair in front of the fire, his long legs stretched out towards the heat, his chin propped up on one hand, his elbow planted on the cushioned armrest. At the Soldier’s appearance, Trip sat upright, a congenial grin showing a row of straight, white teeth. His eyebrow cocked up expectantly. 

“Well? How did it go this time?” he asked eagerly.

The Soldier remained silent behind his mask, his eyes narrowing at the other man. Trip tipped his head to one side, disappointment clear in the line of his body. 

“Really? It went that badly? Again?” He ran a hand over his jaw and rolled his eyes when the Soldier held his silence. “Did you do as I suggested?” His tone held a hint of barely contained exasperation. 

“Yes!” the Soldier cried, bursting with sudden agitated movement. He began pacing across the floor. “I did what you said. I stood when she took her seat, I pushed in her chair, I  _ complimented  _ her! I even made sure to keep eye contact and she  _ hated _ every second of it!” 

He flung his arms out as he spoke, gesticulating violently enough to knock a vase to the floor. Trip stopped its inevitable shattering against the floor with a snap of his fingers and the vase was on its stand, unharmed once more. He rose from his chair by the fire, taking the Soldier by the shoulders and leading him to his own seat at the fireplace. The Soldier leaned his elbows on his knees and dropped his face into his hands with a groan. 

“She hates me. She will only ever hate me. As she should.” 

The Soldier felt the solid weight of Trip’s hand come down on his shoulder. He flinched and then relaxed into the touch when it was not followed by pain and violence. A thought, one that had occurred to him often since he had been hidden away from Madame Hydra, niggled to the forefront of his mind. 

“I wish that you would just kill me. This nightmare will  _ never _ end and I have pulled an innocent woman into it through some compulsion that I do not even understand. Why will you all not just kill me and free us all?” He turned his face from his hands, feeling the sting of tears in his throat and at the corners of his eyes. 

Trip looked down at him, weighing his words silently and then shaking his head. “I'm sorry, but I can't do that.” 

_ “Why?”  _ the Soldier croaked. 

“Because I have faith that things will work out for the better. And because I am your  _ friend.”  _ Trip’s fingers squeezed lightly against his shoulder. 

He turned his face away to stare into the fire, unable to comprehend the gentleness in the other man's eyes. He was silent a long while, long enough for Trip to give a final squeeze of his shoulder before leaving him alone with his thoughts. When he spoke again it was to an empty room lit dimly by dying embers. 

“I don't know what that word means.” 

His dreams that night were an endless stream of blood and terror that not even his own screams could wake him from. 


	7. An Unfortunate Bout of Curiosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know how people say things have to get worse before they can get better? 
> 
> Things are getting worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to my beta ladyaudiophile!

Despite the emotional upheaval of her captivity and the unsettling nature of her captor, Darcy's days fell into a predictable routine. Her mornings were usually spent lounging about in her bed, either sleeping or chatting idly with Daisy and occasionally Jemma. Her afternoons were usually spent wandering around the castle or roaming the grounds. As the days passed and Darcy became more familiar with her surroundings, Daisy began leaving her more and more on her own to explore her new residence. 

Darcy appreciated the moments of solitude. She thoroughly enjoyed Daisy's company, but constant companionship has the habit of becoming cumbersome to both parties. In her time alone, she often thought of home and her family. She wondered how much time had passed in the mortal world. She wondered how much she had missed. How much she was missing. 

When her thoughts became too heavy to bear, she would frequent the stables. The horses were good, uncomplicated company and Robbie was a decent sort who knew how to be in the same space as someone and still be able to keep to himself. He was cordial and offered help choosing a steed when she decided to go for a ride, but otherwise he left her to her murmured conversations with the animals. 

There was one massive Friesian stallion that was a particular favorite of hers to talk to. He was at least seventeen hands, with a silky black coat and eerily intelligent eyes. The first day that she had come without Daisy, Robbie had introduced the huge, black beast as Ghost, with a tinge of pride in his voice. Ghost was Robbie’s most favored horse and it would seem that Robbie was Ghost’s most favored person, for he was the only one that Ghost would permit to ride him. 

Which was fine by Darcy. She was quite content to stand on the other side of Ghost’s stall door, feeding him carrots from Jemma’s garden and whispering flattery into his twitching ears, instead of perching on his back at a height that was entirely too perilous for her taste. If she wanted to go for a ride, she would keep to the squat, even tempered mare that Robbie had suggested for her. But for conversation, there was none better than Ghost. He knew exactly the right places to give a nicker or a snort in response to whatever she was venting to him that day, with the proper amount of righteous indignation on her behalf. 

When her chats with Ghost were not enough to purge the melancholy from her veins, she would saddle the mare, Alice, and gallop out across the castle grounds until the cutting wind had frozen her face past feeling and her hair was hopelessly tangled. Something about the biting cold always seemed to lift her spirits. 

Which was why she spent much of her time outdoors playing in the snow with Daisy, as she had not done since she was a child. There was one such occasion where the two women were preoccupied with tumbling the other over into snowpiles and attempting to stuff as much snow into the other woman’s hair and garments as possible. Darcy was bent double and kneeling in the snow, her arms wrapped tight around her belly as she cackled at Daisy’s disarray, when she felt the prickle of someone’s eyes upon her. She shuddered and raised her head, swiveling around to find the source of the feeling as the laughter died out in her throat. At last, she spotted the voyeur. 

The Soldier lurked half hidden behind a rose covered trellis a stone’s throw away from the women, his body still as marble. He tensed when she took notice of him, but did not turn away nor attempt to pretend that he had not been spying on her. She leveled her gaze to his, lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, and then very deliberately turned her back to him and returned her attention to her companion. When she glanced in the direction of the trellis not ten minutes later, he had disappeared. 

She let the tension that she had inadvertently been carrying since noticing his arrival dissipate from between her shoulders. It was the first time she had seen the monster outside the confines of the private dining hall. 

That was part of her daily routine as well. Up until that moment, her days had been hers, free of any interaction with her captor. But every evening she was led to the dining hall, like a lamb to slaughter, and forced to endure the Soldier’s company.

Not that he was much company. He barely said anything to her beyond the wooden delivery of a variety of compliments. He did not eat, merely sat and watched while she dined, and then inevitably he would pose his request for her hand in marriage. She vehemently refused each and every time, with varying degrees of venom depending on how much energy she had that day to pour into her response. 

As the uncomfortable evenings together continued on, the Soldier’s capacity for wooing her seemed to fizzle out. He grew sullen, slumped in his chair and throwing out flattery as if under duress, much like a small child will begrudgingly politely converse with an elderly relative at the behest of its mother. He stopped attempting to push in her chair or rising when she entered the room. Now, when she glanced up at him, she was just as likely to find him staring into the fire as she was to catch him watching her. 

He seemed to find the dinners to be as distasteful as she did, which was odd for a man who seemed so determined to marry her. It mattered not to her, so long as he kept his distance and did not presume to touch her. He could pout all he liked, just as long as he stayed at his end of the table. 

One evening, she arrived to find that the Soldier was not there. She desperately hoped that he had given up and would no longer be plaguing her evenings, but she was not so lucky. He arrived through the hidden servants’ entrance a half hour after she had taken her chair at the table. He stumbled forth, almost as if he had been shoved through the entryway, looking slightly more disheveled than usual. He stalked stiffly towards the table, jerked his chair out and sat. His arms came up to cross over his chest and he pointedly avoided her gaze. He was silent for a few more minutes before blurting out his customary proposal in a low growl. She gave her own customary response. 

As soon as the word was out of her mouth, he rose again and disappeared from the room the same way he had come. She stared at the space of his departure, blinking slowly, then returned to her meal with a shrug. 

The next evening, he arrived even later, barely catching her before she had finished her meal, and did not even sit before asking his question. Thus began a new pattern, in which the Soldier would visit briefly to ask for her hand, with his arms crossed and standing facing the fire more often than not, before exiting the room again posthaste. It was odd and uncomfortable, but his brief company lost some of its terror for Darcy. Her evening meal became peaceful again, with the exception of a few moments of annoyance, no more emotionally distressing than that of being bothered by a gnat. 

It seemed an impossible thing, but after several weeks in the castle, the place began to lose its foreboding nature. She was still homesick most days, but she did not live with a constant knot of fear coiled tight in her belly. Really, except for the short minutes in the Soldier’s company, her stay at the castle was quite pleasant, if at times a bit too dull for her inquisitive mind. 

Which is perhaps why the forbidden staircase niggled so insistently at her mind. It was a flaw of her nature that, when left without proper avenues to occupy her mental energy, Darcy often found herself meddling in things that she ought not to. Her father had learned early that her curiosity was a force to be reckoned with and that, if he valued what was left of his sanity, he had better make sure she was not left with ample idle time. The inhabitants of the castle had yet to learn this, and as such, chaos of Darcy’s making, in some form or fashion, was inevitable. 

Near the beginning of the third month of her captivity, the balance between Darcy’s curiosity and fear tipped and she found herself hovering near the bottom step of the spiralling stone staircase. Her mind raced, weighing the potential folly of venturing up them. There was a chance that she might find something terrible...but the appeal of discovering the unknown was too much temptation for her. 

She peered around the empty hall, gathered her skirts in her hands, and then took the first step. When the floor did not open up to swallow her whole, nor did the tower that encased the stairway begin to topple down on top of her, she felt safe enough to continue onwards. Her slippers were near silent on the hard stone steps, the only sound coming from the light rustling of her wide skirts brushing along the wall of the tower. She climbed higher and higher, until she was breathing heavily. She frowned in some dismay at how quickly the fine meals and lack of hard labor had lessened her athleticism. She paused on a step, leaning against the wide limestone centerpost. She pressed a hand to her breast, willing her breath and heart to calm. She vowed that she would start some form of regular exercise from that day forward. She could not stand the thought of her body growing weak and muscles soft with disuse. 

She continued her journey up the turret, keeping her ears perked for any sign that she might be caught. At last she came to a decently sized, circular landing that took up about as much space as her kitchen back home had. Leading from the landing, there was only one door for her to take. She leaned against the sturdy oak, pressing her ear tightly to the wood. When all remained quiet, she grasped the latch, lifting it ever so slowly, and pushed the door open slower still. She peeked through the miniscule crack she had made and, finding no one peering back at her from the other side, swung the door open fully. 

She found herself in what looked like a drawing room, though she doubted it had seen much use. It was sparsely appointed, with no decoration whatsoever and only a small couch placed in front of a long empty fireplace that jutted forward into the room. Darcy paced around the small, semicircular room, a moue of dismay on her face. She had expected something more exciting at the top of the stairs and was wholly disappointed by the nearly empty room. 

In childish petulence, she folded her arms over her chest and leaned against the fireplace mantle. All that huffing and puffing up the stairs and all she had to show for it was an old couch and a fireplace mantle that was carved with a series of ugly gargoyles, all of them with their faces twisted into grotesque smiles. It felt very much as if they were all mocking her efforts and stupidity. She stuck her tongue out at the one nearest her and reached out a hand to flick it on its horrid, bulbous nose. 

She flinched when the stone beneath her feet shifted with a groan and the fireplace slid away from the turret wall towards the couch. Blinking in surprise, Darcy stepped hurriedly around the fireplace to peer at the opening that had appeared behind it, revealing another set of stairs leading upwards. She glanced at the gargoyle she had assaulted a moment ago and lightly touched her forefinger to its nose. At her touch, the fireplace slid back into place, hiding the secret stairwell once more. 

A wide grin stretched across her face at the exciting turn of events and she mashed at the gargoyle a third time, stepping into the hidden space as soon as the gap was wide enough to fit her skirts.

This staircase was much narrower and darker than the previous. If she stretched her arms out, she could brush her elbows against both the centerpost and wall. As it was, the tight fit made it a bit hard for her to maneuver with all her finery on. She did her best to tuck her skirts tight against her legs so as not to catch and tear the fine fabric against the rough hewn stone stairwell. 

She followed the steps, making three full rotations around the centerpost before stopping abruptly at another door. As she had before, she pressed an ear to the door then carefully lifted the latch. She pushed the door open an inch and peered in with one eye. Through the sliver of open doorway she could see a large, four posted bed that was hung with thick, heavy gold curtains that would block out daylight splendidly for the user. At the moment, the curtains were tied back and the bed was unoccupied so she chanced opening the door further, wide enough to push her head and upper body through. 

She had begun to grow complacent over her unhindered journey up the stairs, and had foolishly begun to believe that the tower was abandoned. The first landing had certainly appeared so. She realized the magnitude of her mistake when she caught sight of movement from the opposite side of the room. 

Directly across from where she stood half in and half out of the doorway, a fire burned low in its hearth, the embers glowing cherry red. To Darcy’s horror, on one side of the hearth, the Soldier sat in a gilded chair. He sat in profile to her, bare chested, the light from the coals casting him in a sinister, shifting halflight. Further movement came from behind the Soldier, and Darcy was surprised to see Jemma shuffling around behind his chair. 

She was busy fiddling with a bulbous glass container that was the size of a man’s head and contained a swirling, amber liquid that seemed to give off its own golden glow. The container was suspended aloft from a thick iron pole, and from the bottom of the glass container several long strands of what looked like stretched, hollow glass tubes hung down. 

Jemma’s nimble fingers made another motion over the glass and then the amber liquid began to seep down into the glasslike tubes. As the drops of fluid traveled within the translucent tubing, they carried with them their strange ethereal glow, which allowed Darcy to better see where the tubes ended. To her shock and terror, the tubes were embedded into the Soldier’s upper body in various places. The back of his hand, the inside of his elbow, his temples, and each side of his throat all had the strange tubing inserted into his flesh. When the liquid finally reached the places of insertion, it traveled into him, the drops of liquid glowing under his skin in snaking lines. 

Darcy felt ill at the sight. It was wrong, unnatural, and it made her skin crawl to witness whatever it was that she was seeing. His metal arm and where it was melded to his body only added to her revulsion. He was monstrous, his body sick and twisted like nothing she had ever seen. Her fingers dug into the wood of the door, pushing splinters into her fingertips. She gasped, partially at the pain but mostly in disgust and horror. 

It was a muted sound but the Soldier’s head snapped in her direction. His eyes instantly narrowed, leveling her with a glower that made her heart stutter and froze her in place. Her mind pleaded with her legs to flee, but she was helpless, caught under the monster’s scrutiny.

“What do you think you are doing?” he asked, his voice low and shaking. Jemma’s head snapped up at his words, finally catching on to Darcy’s presence. Her eyes went wide and her hand flew up to cover her mouth. 

Darcy panted like prey cornered by a predator, struggling to find her voice. “I was...I didn’t mean to…” Her voice died in her throat as the Soldier rose slowly from his chair, menace rolling off his body like thunderheads before a hurricane. 

“You.  _ You should not be here!”  _ He took a step towards her, stopping when the tubing tugged at his skin. He looked down at himself and loosed a roar of frustration, then began ripping the tubes from under his skin. Jemma gave a sharp cry of dismay at his rash actions, but did not dare stop him, merely stood stiffly with her jaw clenched and hands outstretched helplessly towards him. 

As each tube jerked free from beneath his skin, Darcy noticed that the tubing was tipped by what looked like narrow, golden needles the length of her pinky finger. Where the needles had been, blood seeped from his flesh and streaked down his skin in thin trails. As soon as he had freed himself he was upon her, grasping her by the upper arm with enough force to have her gasping in pain. He pulled her fully into the room with him, pressing in close so that his masked face was a few scant inches from hers. All her senses narrowed down to the way his irate eyes bore into hers, the blue nearly consumed by the black of his pupils, and the sharp pain of his metal fingers digging into her arm. 

He shook her sharply and she realized he had been shouting into her face, though she could not process the words in her state of terror. He spoke again but all she could hear was the rushing of her blood in her ears. She shook her head violently, tears streaking down her face and incoherent pleas bubbling up from her throat. He shoved her away from himself suddenly, and she flew back into the wall, her back and head hitting the stone with a sharp crack. 

Her vision briefly sparked with dancing lights, and when they cleared, she found that her hearing had returned. The Soldier stood facing her, bleeding and breathing hard, his chest rising and falling harshly. He lifted one arm and she flinched, thinking that he meant to strike her, but instead he jutted his forefinger towards the door. 

“Get.  _ Out,”  _ he growled.

Darcy did not need to be told twice. 

She spun and flew back down the narrow staircase, not stopping her pace at the first landing and speeding down the second set of stairs. It was a small miracle that she did not fall and stumble in her haste, but instead safely reached the bottom step and burst out into the now familiar, brightly lit hall. Still she did not halt her pace, determined to reach her bedroom and lock herself away for all eternity. She mentally berated herself for her idiocy, for her curiosity, and for becoming complacent around the Soldier. How could she be so foolish as to forget how deadly he was, how unhinged?

She peered over her shoulder periodically, her terror bordering on paranoia that the Soldier was in pursuit of her. It was as she had her head craned around to look behind her that she collided with another warm body. Her head whipped back around, her fear convincing her that the Soldier had cut her off and was now gripping her by her shoulders, surely to bring about her demise. 

She twisted desperately in the grasp of her captor, only ceasing in her struggle when an amiable voice, that most certainly did not belong to the Soldier, caught her attention. 

“Hey, girl. Where’s the fire?” a tall, dark-skinned man asked, his lips upturned in an inviting smile. Relief flooded into her that the handsome man holding her up was not her tormentor and she struggled to stutter out an explanation for him. 

“The-the-the Soldier, he-there were these tubes...in his skin and he- I didn’t mean to, I was just curious, but he caught me and I saw...gods I don’t even know what I saw but it was  _ awful _ and he saw me see it and he was  _ so angry,  _ I thought he was going to k-kill me-” She ended abruptly with a series of hiccuping sobs and the stranger loosened his grip on her shoulders, only to wrap his arms around her and pull her into a comforting embrace. 

“Shh shh, it’s alright girl.” A large hand came up to cover the back of her skull, cradling her face into his warm chest. He rocked her slightly until her sobbing subsided and then tipped her chin up to look at him. “He doesn't do that anymore, I promise. He just...he gets a little...sensitive...when he’s under maintenance.” 

Darcy blinked tears from her eyes, peering up at him. “Under maintenance?” she asked, confusion creasing her brow. 

The man raised an eyebrow. “The mask doesn’t come off. We have to keep him fed somehow.”

Darcy stared at him, her brain slowly churning to understand his words. “So the...things…?” she asked vaguely, gesturing at her upper body. 

The man bit down on a full lower lip and seemed to be mentally weighing some decision or another. “Listen,” he stated, “I'm not a healer so the finer points of what you witnessed are beyond me. When Jemma is finished up you ought to sit down and talk to her about what you saw. She will have answers that I do not. Until then,” he paused and extended his elbow towards her, “may I escort you down to the kitchens? You look like you could use a snack. I may not be able to match Jemma in her skills as a healer, but I am just as good of a cook as she is, if not better.” He smiled down at her brightly and then snuck a furtive glance around the empty hallway. “Don't tell Fitz I said that, though.” 

Darcy nodded and replied in a strained voice, “Alright. A snack does sound pleasant. I am feeling a little dizzy.” As an afterthought, she added, “Though that may be from when my head hit the wall.” 

The man frowned and paused his stride to inspect the back of her head. His frown deepened at what he found and his lips pinched tightly together before he continued leading her down the hall. 

“You must be Antoine Triplett?” Darcy ventured. 

The man nodded in affirmation. “You got it in one, though you may call me Trip.” He bent slightly at the waist in a stunted bow. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle Selvig. I am sorry it had to be under such...traumatic circumstances.” 

Darcy snorted inelegantly. “My life appears to be one traumatic circumstance after another. I think it is the only way I can meet new people now.”

Trip swiveled his head side to side. “As you say, but I think, if you give it time, things will eventually get significantly better.” 

Darcy eyed him sharply. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“...it means you're about to eat some of the best food you have ever tasted in your life.” He did not meet her eyes but Darcy stowed away her suspicion to examine later. 

“Can't wait,” she replied with a snort and a roll of her eyes. 

An awkward silence followed as they continued their journey to the kitchens before Trip spoke again. 

“In all seriousness, please don't tell Fitz I said that…” he murmured. 

Darcy laughed at the way Trip’s eyes darted along the hall, as if the crotchety man he spoke of could be expected to pop out from a shadow to reprimand him for daring to insinuate that he was better than Jemma at something. 

In the kitchens, Trip pulled a stool up to a large, square table that stood in the middle of the room, handing Darcy a handful of grapes to munch on while he set about cooking up a proper snack for the young woman. 

A short while later, Jemma popped into the kitchen with a flare of emerald green light. Darcy, who was still slightly shaken by the events of the day, flinched in her seat. Jemma caught the movement and gave her an apologetic smile. 

She turned her eyes to Trip and they appeared to have some sort of non-verbal conversation between themselves. Darcy waited patiently for them to finish, turning her attention to her meal until she heard Jemma clear her throat delicately. 

“So,” the other woman began with forced cheer, “I expect you have some questions after…” here she faltered, then shook herself and continued on, “after all of  _ that.”  _

Darcy swallowed her mouthful and began pushing her food around on her plate before answering. 

“Some,” she replied, her mouth pulling down at one corner. 

Jemma made a hand motion prompting Darcy to proceed. She drew a slow breath, her thoughts spinning and stomach turning as she revisited the unpleasant experience from earlier. 

“What were you putting into his skin? And why?” she asked quietly. 

Jemma nodded decisively, her voice falling into the cadence of a scholar giving a lecture. “Yes, excellent questions to start with. As I'm sure you have noticed, the Soldier is never without his mask. This is through no choice of his own, as the leather has been melted and grafted onto his face, in much the same way as his arm is connected to his chest and shoulder. This, of course, prevents him from being able to consume sustenance in the traditional manner so we have...made efforts to provide him with that sustenance through other methods.” 

“The glowing liquid in the jar?” Darcy asked. 

Jemma nodded, smiling brightly, pleased with Darcy's sharp mind. “Indeed. That liquid is in actuality a derivative of ambrosia. I have tweaked the properties of it slightly to account for his mostly mortal body and, using the system you witnessed, am able to transport the ambrosia directly into his bloodstream, thus providing his body with enough nourishment to prevent starvation,” Jemma finished, a hint of pride and eagerness in her voice. 

Darcy stared at Jemma's slightly manic smile, a bit unsettled by how much the other woman enjoyed her craft. Trip cleared his throat and Jemma seemed to notice the inappropriateness of her delight. She gave a nervous chuckle and smoothed out the front of her tunic. 

“Anyway,” she continued in a more sedate tone, “do you have any other questions for me?” 

“How did his body...the mask and arm...how did it get like that?” she asked slowly, not sure she wanted the answer. Jemma glanced quickly at Trip, who merely dipped his head and motioned for her to continue. 

“Well, you see...there was a woman, a fairy, actually-”

“Madame Hydra?” Darcy interrupted. 

Jemma blinked rapidly her mouth popped open slightly in surprise. “You have heard of her? I did not know she had made herself well known in the mortal realm.” 

Darcy shook her head. “No, she hasn’t. But my soon to be brother-in-law is Thor of Asgard and he told me what he knew of Madame Hydra and her assassin.” 

Trip and Jemma both tensed into matching postures of alarm. “The Crown Prince? Should we be a expecting a siege in the near future?” Jemma asked. 

Darcy snorted. “Not likely. Odin exiled and disowned him a couple years back. We- my sister and I- we took him in. He and Jane fell in love and he decided to stay with us. When Jane told him what happened to her here, he told us what little he knew of Madame Hydra and her Winter Soldier. Said she twisted him. At the time and after witnessing his behavior for myself, I assumed Thor meant psychologically,” she said, waving a hand absently at her own head. “Never realized she had  _ physically  _ twisted him as well.” 

Darcy shuddered and curled in tighter on herself, as if a sudden frigid breeze had swept over her. As she mulled over her realization, Trip and Jemma were caught up in another silent debate over just how much they could reveal without jeopardizing Darcy's ability to potentially break the curse. 

Eventually, Trip broke the silence. “There were many horrible things done to the Soldier in the name of Hydra,” he said solemnly. 

Darcy's eyes flicked up to meet his. “And things done  _ by _ him, if his reputation among the fae was enough to make Thor go pale in fright.”

“Yes,” Jemma conceded, drawing the word out slowly, “but perhaps there was more going on than was understood,” she intimated. 

Darcy’s eyes darted back and forth between the two fairies, then narrowed. “What are you trying to tell me? Without actually telling me?” 

She was met with tightly closed mouths and silence from them both. She gave an irritated sigh. “I really hate riddles. And this castle is damn near filled to the brim with them.” 

She eyed them both, waiting for a break in their silence and an answer to their riddles. When none were forthcoming, she heaved a resigned sigh and said, “Alright, well if you are not going to give me any more answers, then I am going to my room for a nap and a change of clothes.” She glanced down at where her tulle skirts had been ripped to near shreds by her hasty exodus earlier, her mouth turned down in displeasure. She hoped Raina would be able to fix it. 

Trip and Jemma cordially bid her farewell, but not before Jemma insisted that she have a proper look at Darcy's head, back, and arm. All three were bruised rather magnificently and her head ached something fierce. Under Jemma’s cool fingers, Darcy felt her skin grow warm, the pain heightening and then dissipating suddenly into near nothingness. She eyed Jemma with some awe and the other woman merely smiled at her, her nose crinkling charmingly. 

Darcy thanked her, then hastily made her way to her room, stripping off her ruined gown and slipping between the cool sheets of her bed. She curled around herself, pulling the covers securely over her head, and began to cry earnestly into the darkened space she had made for herself between the linens. After some time she felt a warm weight settle along her back, wrapping around her outside of her cocoon of blankets. She did not need to see her to know that it was Daisy that held her as she cried. 

When she went to dinner that night, the Soldier never showed himself. She could have fainted with relief when Coulson came to escort her back to her room after dinner and the Soldier still had not made an appearance. 

When she was alone in her bedroom once more, she changed hastily into her nightgown, thoroughly exhausted from the day and ready to douse her fevered mind in the cool waters of sleep. She made to pull back the covers of her bed, but paused when she noticed that a single, perfect rose lay on her pillow, its soft petals a yellow so pale it was almost cream colored in the dim light. Beneath the rose there was a tiny scrap of paper that had a single word, “sorry,” scrawled across it in jagged, halting handwriting. 

She scooped both items up from her pillow and carried them to her hearth, tossing them onto the fire with little ceremony. She stood watching the flames envelop and blacken both items, her hands folded behind her back. 

She did not care what had been inflicted upon the Winter Soldier. He and his apology could burn in Hel. 


	8. Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darcy gets some insight into why the Soldier is the way he is. Understanding is the first step in the journey to compassion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for mild violence/gore and and mention of rape (though nothing explicit).
> 
> I have the next chapter written as well and will likely post it Sunday or Monday. 
> 
> Thanks and praise to my beta, ladyaudiophile!
> 
> Enjoy, y'all. Or hate it. I don't know. Good luck.

For seven days, Darcy received no further apologies, nor did she see any sign of the Soldier. Though, that is not to say that he did not see  _ her.  _

In the slippery way his mind had, he often remembered their altercation with endings that varied in violence from the actual event. Sometimes he remembered her fleeing...but more often than not, his memory showed her brains splattering against his bedroom wall, her lifeless body sliding down to crumple against his floor. He would wake from his nightmares and see her corpse still slumped by his door, haunting him. If he'd had anything in his stomach he would have been sick. 

He would crawl from his bed, inexorably drawn to the horrors he had created, that he always created, guilt heavy on him and fear prickling across his skin. His hands would slide through the phantasm of his mind, his eyes blinking rapidly until the vision faded and reality took hold of him once more. He would sit there shaking and miserable until the sun rose high in the sky and Darcy finally left her room. 

Like an itch under his skin, he felt compelled to follow her in the shadows, assuring himself that she was alive, that he had not killed her in his madness. He felt like a fool doing it, lurking out of sight like a lovesick coward. He was brought up short by the word  _ lovesick,  _ unsure where his mind had conjured it from or how it applied. Was he supposed to love her? What did that even mean? He pushed the confusing thoughts aside. It was a pointless endeavor to chase after half formed thoughts when his mind was such a tangled mess. 

Darcy seemed to be wholly unaffected by their last meeting. Her body bore no sign that he had harmed her, though Trip had informed him that Jemma had helped in part with that. Nor did she seem particularly melancholy. If anything, she was more cheerful, a shining font of joy and laughter, especially when accompanied by her companion, Daisy. He was surprised to find how loquacious she could be when not hindered by his presence.

He also found out that her wit was unparalleled. Listening to her conversations with Daisy, there was more than one occasion where he felt a strange sensation bubbling up in his chest. It was after the third such strange symptom that he realized it was a desire to laugh. It bewildered him and warmed him strangely and the desire to make himself return to her presence doubled in intensity. He had been suppressing that urge to spend the evenings with her, too ashamed to let her see him just yet, but it was a strange pressure at the base of his skull that pushed at him to join her for dinner once more. He could not resist it forever.

 

***

 

Darcy huffed in annoyance, peering closely at the fabric gripped in her hands. Even in the bright morning light at her window, she could not seem to properly mend her rent gown. The material was too delicate for her hands, the weave too fine for her to sew together with the needle and thread Daisy had brought her. Try as she might, she only caused the fabric to bunch in ugly ripples around her stitches. Her sewing skills had always been adequate for darning hers and Jane’s clothing in the past, but this was obviously beyond her abilities. 

She gave up the pursuit entirely, tossing the wretched dress off her lap and onto the floor, kicking it away for good measure. She was not normally so easily perturbed, but her encounter with the Soldier the night before, and his subsequent apology, had left her in a foul mood. Daisy chuckled pleasantly from behind her as she tucked her useless needle and thread into her sewing purse. 

“You could at least aid me with some of that fae magic instead of laughing at me,” she mumbled rather crossly. 

“Oh no, not I,” Daisy replied, chuckling still. “I’ve no skill with a needle whatsoever. Jemma might be able to assist you, but her stitches are sure to turn out more surgical than visually appealing. If you want the dress fixed, you will just have to pay a visit to Raina.” 

Darcy’s features darkened. “That’s what I was afraid of,” she replied with a shiver. 

Daisy made a rude noise with her mouth and waved away Darcy’s concern. “There’s no need to be afraid of Raina. She’s harmless, if a bit...abrading.”

Darcy gave a her a look of sheer disbelief, to which Daisy responded, “Well, at the very least, she is loyal to Coulson, and he is quite fond of you.” 

Darcy smiled at that. Her interactions with the director were infrequent, but he had a fatherly quality to him that appealed to her. He was always asking her how she was and seemed genuine in his concern. 

“Why is she loyal to him?” she asked. “Did he mother hen her into submission?”

Both women giggled at that, as they had had many conversations in the past concerning Coulson and his bad habit of collecting strays and then relentlessly attempting to parent them. 

“Something like that,” Daisy replied. “She found herself in a rather distressing situation of her own making some centuries back. Coulson made the decision to bring her in out of the cold, I guess you could say. He saved her life, and the event humbled her immensely.” 

“Humbled? Are we speaking of the same woman?” Darcy asked, fighting back a grin. 

Daisy rolled her eyes. “Believe it or not, she was far  _ far _ worse before Coulson took her in.” 

Darcy hummed skeptically and gathered the dress in her arms. There really was nothing for it; she would have to go see the woman. She bid farewell to Daisy, who was needed elsewhere, and made her way to Raina’s workshop on the far side of the castle. 

Darcy had only been to the room once, back when Daisy had shown her around the castle, but months later she remembered it clearly. It was in one of the many turrets that the castle possessed, and one of the largest with large windows positioned every few feet to let in as much light as possible. Really, the room was gorgeous, with the spectacular view from the windows and the riot of color and fabrics that seemed to explode from every inch of the room. It would have been a place that she frequented were it not for the unpleasant woman who spent most of her time there. 

Coming to the top of the turret stairs, she knocked lightly on the door to Raina’s workshop and Raina’s smooth voice bade her entrance. Darcy stepped into the room and was nearly blinded by its beauty in the bright morning sun. From every surface, jewels glittered and silk shone in  an abundance of heady colors. Oh, it  _ was  _ a lovely room and her heart thudded in her chest with longing. In the very center of the workshop, Raina sat at her enormous loom, hands fluttering the shuttle back and forth so fast that they blurred at the edges. The thread itself that she was using was so fine that it looked no sturdier than spider’s silk. With her back to Darcy, Raina did not pause in her work as she greeted her. 

“Please, come in, little one,” she said, her voice distant. As Darcy came closer to stand by Raina’s side, she noticed that the other woman’s normally dark, intelligent eyes were a glowing amber as they skittered across the length of cloth she was weaving. When her hands finally stilled and her eyes raised to settle on Darcy, the amber faded to their usual golden-brown. She smiled slyly up at Darcy, but the smile faded towards a sour expression when she took in the dress bundled into Darcy’s arms. 

“What have you done to your dress?” she asked flatly, eyes flicking back up to Darcy’s with displeasure. 

Darcy swallowed once and then mustered her courage to respond. “I had an unfortunate run in with the Soldier. In his quarters. While he was...busy. Most of the damage occurred as I was fleeing.” She winced at the memory. 

“Yes, I heard about that,” Raina replied slowly, thoughtfully. “I rather think you’ve learned your lesson so I will not scold you further for the absolute disgrace you’ve made of my hard work.” Her mouth pinched into a thin line and she glanced at Darcy from the corner of her eyes. She gingerly took the ruined dress from Darcy’s arms, as if she was rescuing an infant from the grasp of a monster, and carried it over to a table by one of the westward facing windows. The table held other garments that were in similar states of disrepair. Apparently, she was not the only occupant of the castle who was rough on Raina’s clothing. 

Raina muttered softly to herself as she spread the dress over the table, getting a better idea of the extent of the damage. Darcy drifted to Raina’s side, hands sliding seemingly of their own accord over the mountains of material as she passed them. Next to her, Raina clicked her tongue unhappily, then waved her hand sharply through the air over the dress, which folded itself neatly and settled on top of a stack of clothing resting at one corner of the table. 

Darcy cleared her throat. “Perhaps...perhaps it would be a good idea for me to have a few garments similar to what Daisy wears? So I am less likely to ruin the pretty things you have made me when I decide to do something especially stupid.” She smiled wanly down at the other woman. 

Raina turned her head slowly to meet Darcy’s gaze, blinking rapidly. “Not you too!” she lamented, thoroughly displeased with the request. “I thought at last I had found someone in this damned castle who would  _ appreciate  _ my creations and now you are asking me to make more of those drab outfits that Daisy prefers?”

Darcy stepped back a pace, surprised at the hurt radiating off the other woman at her request. “Well, they do not need to be all black, as Daisy tends to wear...but the tunic and breeches seem like a more...practical outfit. Perhaps you could design something in that style but with materials that are more artistic than plain black linen and leather?” Darcy’s shoulders tensed as she eyed Raina, waiting for her reaction. “Maybe?”

Raina stared at her long and hard. She broke the gaze and her head whipped around to where a bolt of pale blue silk was propped against the wall. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, humming thoughtfully to herself. “Perhaps you are right. I am sure that I can make you something that is both functional and exquisite to look at.” Raina nodded to herself and turned her attention back to Darcy. 

“Now, since you are here, why don’t you come sit with me and keep me company at my loom for a short while?” she asked, her smile turning sharp and her eyes calculating. Darcy made to protest and took a step back towards the door but she was halted by Raina’s iron-like grip around her wrist. 

“Come, come,” she scolded. “I won’t bite.” The toothy grin she displayed did not settle Darcy’s nerves in the slightest, but under the other woman’s tight grip she was helpless but to follow her back to her loom. She sat stiffly on the bench beside Raina before she was finally released from her grip. Raina ghosted her hands gracefully across the threads for a moment, as if finding her place in a book she had been reading. Then she took a long slow breath, released it, and began to shuffle the shuttle rapidly across the threads. Darcy watched in awe at the skill of the other woman.

“What do you see, halfling?” Raina asked, her voice dropping into an absentminded cadence. 

Darcy blinked and focused on the intricate pattern coming into shape beneath Raina’s hands. It seemed haphazard to her, though, whimsical and without any shape or design that she could clearly describe. 

“Um, well, that bit there looks a bit...squiggly. And that section there looks like it could be a horse, if horses had eight legs…” she trailed off, uncertain in her assessment. 

Raina sighed impatiently. “No, girl, look  _ harder _ and tell me what you see.”

Darcy flicked a brow up at Raina’s tone, but turned her attention to the loom, squinting furiously at the material taking shape. But it was of no use. She sighed and wished that she was elsewhere, unsure why the seer-seamstress was so desperate for her to understand her creation. It was that thought that brought some clarity and sparked her next words.

“Oh. I am not...I don’t have the gift of Sight, if that is what you’re asking? I am sorry.” She shrugged helplessly but Raina did not see the gesture for her eyes stayed on her loom. 

Raina’s mouth turned down into a frown and then her expression cleared. “Perhaps not, but you are rather musically gifted,” she said lightly. “I’ve heard you singing in the halls many times since you’ve come here and you have a beautiful voice. Would you mind singing to me as I work for a little while?” 

The question seemed innocent enough...yet there was an odd lilt to the woman’s voice as she asked it. However, Darcy could see no harm in it so she complied. “What would you have me sing?”

“Oh, anything, really. Whatever the weave inspires, I suppose...”

Darcy hummed to herself and turned her eyes back to Raina’s dancing hands. She tapped her foot slowly on the stone floor, letting her eyes unfocus and the hum of the shuttle dashing back and forth give birth to a tune in her head. When she sang the tune, it came without words in a series of soft vocalizations. As she sank into the music, her voice soared and kept pace with the design rapidly unfolding under Raina’s gifted hands. 

It was strange, but the longer she sang, the brighter the patterns shone. Then, it was as if they had come to life, dancing of their own accord across the cloth, stretching and growing, like shadows in the evening sun. She would have gasped and leant to peer closer, but she found that she suddenly could not move, nor halt her singing. And yet...it was as if her soul was drawing closer to peer at the shadows. Her voice grew distant to her own ears, as if she had left her body somewhere far behind, and then she was tumbling into an abyss of color and sound. 

It was madness, and she felt her mind being pulled in a multitude of directions. She wanted to scream, to shout out, “Stop!” but she had no throat nor body to give voice to the thought. 

She knew not how long she fell in that blazing world of color and shapes, shapes that almost appeared to be human, but finally she slammed back down into her body. 

Except that it was  _ not _ her body. Nor was she in Raina’s workshop any longer. She looked out into an unfamiliar room, through eyes that did not belong to her. She tried to turn to look around her, but found herself incapable of controlling the body she occupied. Her soul was just a passenger in someone else’s body. With mounting panic, she caught the glint of silver from the corner of her left eye, realizing that the true owner of the flesh she occupied was none other than the Soldier. 

Her terror did not abate as she watched through his eyes as he slowly stalked forward to where a young girl sat playing in front of a blazing hearth, her hands wrapped lovingly around a wooden doll. The girl did not notice his presence until he was right behind her and her head whipped around to face him. Confusion muddled her features, the last traces of baby fat still clinging to her cheeks. She asked something in a language that Darcy could not decipher but she could guess it was something close to, “who are you?”

The Soldier did not speak, but his hand darted out to grasp the girl by her pretty blonde curls, hoisting her off the ground. She shrieked and twisted in his grasp, hands coming up by instinct to grasp at his wrist and alleviate the strain on her scalp. 

She did not struggle for long. The Soldier’s metal hand whipped out faster than Darcy’s slow mind could follow. It was only when she saw the girl’s hands fall limp and her throat gaping open did she realize the Soldier had slit the child’s throat. Rage and helplessness rose up in Darcy and she would have screamed if she could. Instead, she could only watch as the Soldier lowered the girl back to the floor. He arranged her almost tenderly, curling her onto her side and tucking her forgotten dolly into the cradle of her lifeless arms. Her blood pooled swiftly on the floor beneath her and soaked her dress. Stepping back, he peered down at his work. Darcy felt something snap in him then, a tenseness coursing through the body she was occupying. His hands fisted at his sides and he began to shake violently. 

There was a sudden tug between the Soldier’s shoulder blades and then he (and through him, Darcy) was in an entirely different room. There was no crackling fire, no dead child here, but there was a beautiful, if imperious looking, woman standing directly in front of the Soldier. She looked at him hungrily, a wolfish smile marring what would have been a pretty face if it were not for the menace of her expression.

“Well?” she asked impatiently. “Have you paid your visit to the little czarina?”

The Soldier shook harder and jerked his head in the affirmative. Her responding smile was all wrong and made Darcy feel sick inside.

“Good. That’s the last time her father will attempt to hinder me.” She stepped away from the Soldier, stepping over to a small desk and plucking a red, leather-bound journal from the top. She scribbled down a few notes into the book and then snapped it closed. Darcy noticed the front was embossed with a star, but no other markings to indicate its contents. 

“Please,” a gravely voice rang out in the stillness of the room. Darcy was surprised when she realized it had come from the Soldier. “Please,” he said again and the auburn haired woman looked up quizzically at him. “No more children. I can’t... _ I can’t…” _ his head dropped into his hands and he moaned miserably. 

Another male voice, this time from behind them, sounded. “I thought you said he would not question you? That he was completely under your control?”

The Soldier’s head snapped up and around, searching for the source of the voice and finding an older, yet handsome, man with piercing eyes and red-blonde hair that was greying at the temples. The man circled around the Soldier, coming to a stop next to the woman who was glaring at him coldly. 

“He is,” she insisted. “His capacity for compassion just has a tendency to rear its nasty head on occasion,” she said, disgust dripping from her mouth as she eyed the Soldier. 

“Ophelia, you assured me that he would be an asset to me in completing my work. This does give me some pause, my lady.”

The woman’s mouth pinched tightly in displeasure and she tapped a talon-like nail against the man’s chest. “Do not think to question my integrity, Mr. Pierce. He will do exactly what you need of him, without protest. He may have fits of morality, but you will find I have become very... _ effective…  _ at curbing them.” The smile she flashed the other man was truly terrifying and Darcy could feel the Soldier shudder in response. The woman turned her head towards him and stepped closer, drawing her nails slowly up over his metal arm. The Soldier shook harder and then the woman’s smile turned cruel and her hand darted up to his face, her touch almost a caress. Her thumb lay across his cheekbone, under his eye, while her palm and fingers spread across his temple and forehead. 

To Darcy’s bewilderment, the Soldier gritted his teeth, panting heavily through them. Something sparked behind the woman’s eyes and then pain unlike anything Darcy had ever felt ricocheted through the Soldier’s skull, like lightning blasting through her mind. She would have screamed but the Soldier was doing that for both of them. She distantly felt his knees give out, felt that awful woman’s hand following them down as Darcy and the Soldier writhed upon the ground. 

And then the pain stopped. The Soldier lay prone on the floor breathing heavily and blinking blankly up at the ceiling. “Get up,” the woman called out and the Soldier did her bidding, rising on shaking legs. 

“Soldier, would you be so kind as to tell Mr. Pierce of your activities this evening?” the woman asked, gesturing towards the other man with a tilt of her head. 

Darcy could feel the confusion rolling off the Soldier, could almost feel the frantic reeling of his mind trying to recover the last few hours of his existence. It was then that Darcy realized what the woman had done. She had erased his memories in an attempt to erase his conscience. The Soldier began to shake his head slowly in the negative and replied roughly, “I...don’t know.”

Ophelia smiled triumphantly and turned to Mr. Pierce. “You see? Problem solved. Any time he gets a little too concerned with his orders, I just wipe him and start over.”

Mr. Piece hummed and nodded. “You make an impressive case, my lady.”

She smiled smugly. “Yes. I know.” Then, turning to the Soldier and grasping him by the wrist, she said, “Come, Soldier. You’ve served me well tonight and I would like to celebrate. Take me to bed, sweet prince.” She fluttered long lashes up at him but the Soldier’s body reacted with cold dread. 

“No,” he whispered, and Darcy felt his skin break out in a cold sweat as he tugged his arm away from the woman’s grip. This greatly displeased her, and an angry flush rose high on her cheeks. 

“Come on, darling, no need to be shy,” she said through gritted teeth, her eyes flitting to where Mr. Pierce now watched with interest. 

The Soldier shook his head and stepped away from her. “No,” he said again, this time with more force. 

Ophelia’s nostrils flared but before she could respond, Mr. Pierce cleared his throat behind her. “For an attack dog, he’s not very well trained, is he?” The derision was clear in his voice and Ophelia’s eyes lit with barely controlled rage. 

“The best mounts are always the hardest to break!” she snapped. She turned her back to the Soldier, marching over to the desk where Mr. Pierce perched casually on the edge. She snatched up the red leather journal again, glaring at Mr. Pierce’s arrogant face and flipping hastily through the pages. Finding what she was searching for, she smiled coldly and licked her lips, then uttered a single word.

“Longing.” 

It was in a language Darcy was sure she had never heard before, but her mind understood the meaning all the same. It puzzled her, the seemingly harmless word, and was incongruent with the manic light of victory in the woman’s eyes. 

The Soldier swallowed hard and took a step forward. “No,” he said, disbelief coloring the word. 

“Rusted,” she continued calmly.

“Stop,” his voice shook and he took another step closer to the pair at the table. 

“Seventeen.”

The Soldier stopped in his tracks, hands fisting at his sides and body vibrating with the effort to keep moving.  _ “Stop!”  _ he cried, helpless. 

“Daybreak!” 

The Soldier responded with an unholy shout that burned his throat. With tremendous effort, he forced his way forward, one step at a time, his entire body shaking as he fought against the spell. 

“Furnace, nine, benign, homecoming,” she rattled off quickly, eyes widening in fear.

He took another step closer, then paused, straining against the magic coursing through him. He fell to his knees and then rose again. 

“One.”

Darcy felt the Soldier sway on his feet, take one more step forward and then stop abruptly. 

“Freight car,” Ophelia said, a finality in her voice. The Soldier stood panting heavily, his hands hanging limp at his sides, his eyes staring out blankly in front of him. 

“Soldier?” the woman asked, almost hesitantly. 

“Ready to comply,” he responded, his voice void of emotion. Her responding smile was slow and creeping. 

“Good. Now, take me to bed,” she demanded. The Soldier stalked forward smoothly to stand beside her, offering his arm. Ophelia smiled smugly and tucked her fingers into the crook of his elbow, then turned her attention to Pierce. She raised her brows at him as if to prove her point and he chuckled at her. 

“Yes, I see now that I spoke out of turn. Please accept my apologies.” He bowed slightly at the waist.

Ophelia nodded and then strode toward the door of the little parlor, calling over her shoulder, “Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Pierce.” 

“And you as well, Madame Hydra.” 

Darcy’s mind stuttered at the realization that the pretty, cruel woman beside her was the infamous Madame Hydra. She supposed it was rather stupid of her to only catch on this late in the events she was enduring, but considering the bizarre nature of her circumstances, she gave herself some grace. 

At the implications that she was about to witness what was essentially rape, Darcy began to panic. Or perhaps, it would be more accurate to say that the ever present panic she had felt since tumbling into the Soldier’s body was spiking once more. She did not want to see what was about to happen, and even less did she wish to  _ feel  _ it. And not just in the physical sense. 

The longer she was trapped in his body, the more aware she became of his...consciousness. She could feel his fear, his despair, his disgust, and with every step closer to the woman’s bedchambers, Darcy could feel his mind fighting to regain control of his body. When Ophelia pressed up to kiss him, his body responded, but Darcy could feel his soul scream with revulsion, with hatred. Somewhere, deep inside, his consciousness beat against the bonds of the spell Madame Hydra had cast, like a bird frantically bludgeoning itself against the bars of its cage. 

Darcy begged for escape, pleading with the universe to release her from whatever hellish nightmare she had entered into. She could not take this anymore, she could not bear it!

There was a soft rushing sound and then she felt as if she was falling into the abyss once more. This time she welcomed the chaos, relieved to be free of being caged within the Soldier’s body. She fell for a long time, scattered scenes of battles won long ago and people long dead rushing past her sight. Faces and places and moments in time careening towards her at breakneck speed until finally they slowed and blurred into amorphous patterns and from far off she could hear her own voice singing wordlessly. He voice grew louder, closer and the images stilled until she felt herself tugged sharply back into her own body. 

She drew a great gasping breath of air, as if coming up from underwater after having stayed under for far too long. Hands like iron manacles wrapped around her shaking wrists and her gaze was overtaken with Raina’s glowing amber eyes. 

_ “What did you see?”  _ she demanded, her voice tight with unrestrained urgency. 

Darcy shook her head, unable to put to voice the horrors she had witnessed. With more strength than she thought she was capable of, she ripped her wrists out from Raina’s clawed hands and fled the room, not stopping until she had reached her own quarters. She dove into her bed, pulling a pillow over her head to muffle the sound of her hysterical sobbing. It took her a while to notice that her sobs had turned to screams and she turned her face into the mattress to swallow them up. 

Her mind wheeled and raced and she fought to gain control of her overwrought emotions. When she had calmed some, she forced herself to examine what she had experienced. The only conclusion she could draw was that Raina had somehow allowed her to see a moment in the past, the Soldier’s past. She hardened her heart against the painful memories, but it was no use. She could already feel herself softening towards the Soldier, her compassion responding to the horrific scenes she had witnessed. 

Damn him, she did not want to pity him, to feel any kind of sympathy for him, not after he had upturned her life so thoroughly. But she was helpless to do anything but hurt for the Soldier. Her heart felt heavy, her stomach leaden with grief. No wonder he seemed so lost, so confused. His mind and body had endured more than enough to drive most men mad; it was a miracle that he had any sanity left. 

She sat up from beneath her bedding, scrubbing the tears from her face and stretching her tense muscles. Turning to her window, she was shocked to see the sun nearly below the horizon. She did not know if she had been crying for that long, or if her time with Raina had eaten up the hours, but she had spent nearly the whole day on this misadventure. 

She rose from her bed and went to wash her face in the basin by her wardrobe and then stripped out of her rumpled gown. She pulled out one of the more simple dresses hanging within her wardrobe, though it was still far more fussy than anything she had ever worn prior to coming to the castle. Feeling refreshed and more at peace now, she sat by her hearth and awaited Coulson’s customary knock and escort down to dinner. 

Within in a few minutes, the knock did indeed come, but she was surprised to see Jemma outside her door, pushing a cart heavy laden with food and drink. She was even more surprised when Jemma informed her that the Soldier had decided to dine alone for the night. Darcy supposed he was still recovering from their altercation. Or perhaps he knew that she had thrown his apology in the fire and was now cross with her...or hurt. Or perhaps it was none of those and he just was tired, she chided herself. It was neither her business nor her concern why he wanted to be alone. A small, unwelcome voice in the back of her mind scoffed at her feigned indifference. 

Darcy damned her own bleeding heart once more and then turned a cheery smile to Jemma, inviting her to join her for supper. She accepted, and Daisy joined them shortly thereafter. The two women helped tremendously in distracting Darcy’s mind. 

Over the following days she did her very best to suppress the creeping sympathies she felt for the Soldier. She refused to allow herself to dwell on anything that might lead to melancholy. She threw her whole being into displaying a cheery disposition, becoming especially frolicsome in her interactions with the other occupants of the castle. She reasoned that if she forced herself to act merry, eventually she would feel it. It took a couple days, but her plan worked surprisingly well. It helped that she did not see the man for several days; she could almost forget about him entirely. 

On the fifth day of her reprieve from his company, she found herself alone for the first time. The other occupants of the castle, who she had started to become fast friends with, were busy with their own duties and responsibilities at that time. She wandered the halls of the castle, fingers trailing along the stone walls as her mind tangled around the conundrum of how to find distraction in the blasted castle without her companions. Her feet took her thoughtlessly to the double doors of the library. She sighed and pushed past the doors into the room. Spending her afternoon reading was as good of a distraction as any, she supposed. 

Darcy peered at the shelves that lined every inch of the walls, hoping to find something that would catch her attention. She had read a majority of the books already, at least the ones that were in her native language and that looked even remotely interesting. Unfortunately, the vast majority of the library consisted of books in foreign tongues or military manuals that she found brain numbingly dull. Would it be so terrible for the library to possess a few light romances?

She craned her head around, searching for any shelves she may have overlooked before and found one high in one corner, obscured in the shadows. She smiled in triumph and pushed the rolling ladder along its track then began the climb to the darkened shelf. She was wearing a pair of soft leather breeches the color of spring grass and a simple silk tunic with tiny hand sewn flowers decorating the collar and hem. She was rather glad the simplistic outfit had shown up on her bed when she had woken that morning. Climbing the steep ladder would have been significantly more difficult in one of her gowns. 

With a grunt, she finally pulled herself to the top and leaned in close to peer at the titles on the spines of the books. She came to a series of ten books that looked to be part of a set, their red leather binding looking familiar in a way that made her stomach drop. She squinted her eyes, trying to read the single word titles embossed into the spines. With a sharp gasp, she recognized the words adorning each of the books. It was the same ten words that Madame Hydra had used in her spell to subdue the Soldier.

Darcy felt lightheaded and her knuckles blanched white where her hands gripped the rungs of the ladder She leaned her forehead against the side rail, breathing in slowly through her nostrils at the onslaught of memory. Raising her head, she lifted a shaking hand to touch the book closest to her. The books shimmered and rippled like water as her fingertips passed through the books entirely. She jerked her hand back, staring at it as if it were foreign to her. Glancing back at the shelf, she bit into her lower lip and slowly edged her hand forwards again, pressing through the image of the books to the wrist. There was a soft pop of pressure in her ears and then the image of the books disappeared entirely, revealing a hollow that was the length of her forearm and height of her palm. Her fingertips came in contact with smooth leather and she gripped at the object, pulling it out into the dim light of the library. 

She was not entirely surprised when she found herself holding the red book that she had seen Madame Hydra write in and read from. Darcy swayed on the ladder and made the hasty decision to get down from her precariously high position before she fell and broke her neck. She tucked the book under one arm and quickly skittered down the ladder to terra firma. Glancing back up at the darkened shelf, she saw that the hollow had been hidden behind the glamour of books once more. 

She weaved through the library on unsteady legs until she came to an alcove near the fire that danced in the hearth. Even this close to its heat, she could not seem to shake the chill in her bones. Darcy settled into the cushioned seat in the alcove and placed the book on her lap. She stared blindly at the cover for several long minutes, debating what she should do next. Mind made up, she opened the cover with trembling fingers. The first page held a beautifully rendered drawing of the Soldier in what looked like sleep. Surrounding the drawing were indecipherable scribbles that made Darcy’s head swim to look at. She blinked and scrubbed at her eyes, then refocused on the meaningless script. The letters seemed to shift and slip beneath her sight and then rearrange themselves into words that she could actually read. Her pleasure at being able to decipher the text faded quickly with each word she read. 

The book was a journal and spellbook, containing a painfully detailed account of what looked to be decades of the Soldier’s life. The things that had been done to him while in Madame Hydra’s possession, all the things that he had been made to do, it was all there in the pages. It made Darcy feel ill, but she could not put it down, could not stop her morbid curiosity. When she came to the end of the journal, her eyes blurred with tears that she blinked away rapidly. She rose for her seat, returning to where she had left the ladder and scurried up it. She tossed the cursed book back into its hidden hollow as if it had burned her hands. She hurried back down the ladder and out of the library, wiping her hands against her breeches as if she could rid herself of the tainted feeling the book had left on her. 

It felt as if the walls of the castle were closing in tight around her. She could not breathe in its dim stone corridors any longer. She rushed to her room, retrieving her warm outer clothes and boots, and then exited the castle, running as fast as she could out into the castle grounds. She ran until she could no longer breathe and tumbled into a pile of soft snow, the ache of her lungs and furiously beating heart a welcome distraction from her mind. She focused on her breathing, letting the cold, crisp air burn her throat and lungs as she pulled it in. She was still laying on her back in the snow when she heard a throat clear nearby. She snapped her eyes open to see Bobbi standing over her, hands on hips and a brow raised. 

“Are you ill?” the blonde asked. 

Darcy groaned. “Yes. No. I am not sure. I think I am mostly heartsick.”

Bobbi seemed uncomfortable with the situation. “Would it help if I distracted you with hard labor?”

Darcy breathed a sigh of relief. “Gods,  _ yes,”  _ she murmured and her eyes fluttered closed. When she reopened them, Bobbi had a hand outstretched towards her. She took it and allowed the other woman to draw her up off the ground. In short order, Darcy found herself on another ladder, this time trimming at the rose bushes under the close eye of Bobbi. The blonde was an utter perfectionist but Darcy welcomed the distraction that the work brought. Her back ached from holding the heavy shears above her head to give shape to the shrubbery and sweat trickled between her shoulder blades despite the cold. She found comfort in the familiar work and vowed she would assist Bobbi more often, if only to keep her mind clear and her body strong. 

The blonde was surprisingly good company. It took her a while to warm up to Darcy, but by the time they took their first break from their work, the women were chatting pleasantly as they strolled through the garden. As they rounded one row of lavender roses, Darcy gave a bright squeal of delight and darted forward to land in a heap on the ground. Bobbi blinked at her strange behavior until Darcy gestured at a spot of earth near her knee. 

“Look! The first signs of spring,” she chirped, her hand brushing over the soft, pale green shoots of grass that were beginning to poke through the snow. Darcy plucked one of the shoots from the ground, chewing on its tender end and savoring the sweet flavor of springtime. She was so very tired of winter. When she returned her attention to her companion, she found her staring down at her with wide eyes. For a moment Darcy thought she had perhaps committed some err in fae etiquette, or personally insulted the garden fairy in some way. Before she could speak, though, Bobbi’s beautiful face split into a delighted grin and she sank to the ground beside Darcy, plucking her own tender shoot and tucking it into the corner of her pretty lips. 

She chewed slowly, thoughtfully, with eyes closed and when she opened them she met Darcy’s gaze. The two women shared silly grins before breaking into ecstatic laughter. 

 

***

 

Director Coulson folded his arms over his chest and perched on the edge of his desk, blinking slowly at the tall blonde standing in front of him, her hands clutched around a hunk of green grass. His eyes darted between the blue of her eyes and the green of the grass that she held reverently in her hands. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and laughed joyously until tears streamed down his face.

_ "Finally,”  _ he gasped out, joy and relief palpable in the single word and reflected in the eyes of the woman standing in front of him.  _ Finally.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the next chapter will have actual interaction between Bucky and Darcy and their relationship actually starts to gain some traction.


	9. An Escape and A Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: violence, mild gore, attempted rape
> 
> Sorry this took so long to post. I had it written out but it needed an overhaul because the tone was all wrong and it needed to be fleshed out more. Big thanks to my beta lady audiophile for helping me pinpoint what was wrong and fixing the mess of grammatical errors that I handed her.

When the sun set on the seventh day, Coulson appeared at her chamber doors, summoning her to dine with the Soldier. Darcy was apprehensive of seeing the man again. She did not know if she would be able to assimilate her new knowledge of his past with what had transpired between them thus far. Her pale fingers twisted together as she entered the dining room. Her eyes traced the cracks in the floor until she reached her chair and she was forced to raise them. There on the other end of the table, the Soldier stood with one hand gripping tightly to the back of his chair, the other fisted at his side. 

Her mouth felt dry and she swallowed hard at the memory of those hands taking the life of a child; of them throwing her into the wall. Any hatred she had harbored for him had faded considerably, as had the fear that he would kill her for the pleasure of it. No, if he were to kill her it would be because his unsteady mind had slipped and snapped. There was a new anxiousness to replace the hate and dread. She felt uncomfortable in her skin, her compassion battling with her horror. She wondered if he remembered what he had done. She wondered how he felt about it if he did. She wondered why he had stayed away for so long. 

In all the time that her mind was spinning in endless circles, they held each other’s gaze as they stood on either end of the table from each other. She felt locked in place, unsure of herself for the first time in a long time. Darcy knew they could not stand there staring at each other forever, so she cleared her throat, saying the first thing that came to mind. 

“I received your apology.” She would have rather started with some other topic, but it was too late now, the words had already burst forth. The Soldier’s eyes darted down to the table and then back up to meet hers, but he remained silent. Darcy suppressed a sigh. It would seem she would be carrying the brunt of any conversation they might have. 

“I accept. Your apology, that is,” she stammered. “And I...I owe you one as well, I suppose. I should not have been sneaking about in your private chambers in the first place. You still should not have been so rough with me, but the first err was mine.” 

She saw the Soldier’s eyes widen, the bewilderment clear despite half of his face being hidden. Her lips ticked up in a tight lipped half-smile and she broke their gaze, choosing to seat herself and busy her idle hands with serving herself. She kept her eyes trained on her meal for the remainder of the evening, passively taking note when the Soldier eventually moved and took his own seat. She resigned herself to the fact that she would be dining in silence, but near the end of her dessert she was startled by the Soldier’s rough voice. 

“I accept your...apology,” he said softly. 

Darcy’s lips warmed into a smile without thought. She heard him inhale lightly and his eyes dipped to her lips for a brief moment. Her smile faded and she felt the odd flush of a blush at the back of her neck. She looked away from him, staring blankly into the fire, willing the heat to burn away her discomfort. 

“Will you marry me?”

Darcy’s eyes fluttered closed and she bit down on the spike of annoyance that bordered on anger. She reminded herself that he had been through much trauma, both physical and emotional, and likely could not stop himself from asking. She pinched the bridge of her nose and then turned back to him. 

“No, thank you,” she said with as much patience as she could muster. He did not meet her eyes, but he nodded in acknowledgment of her answer. Darcy sighed, her full belly expanding with a pleasant tightness against her breeches. She tossed her napkin from her lap onto the table and rose from her chair. 

“Goodnight, Soldier. I am going to bed,” she announced around a stifled yawn. She turned on her heel to tread from the room. Softly, she heard him respond in kind just as she was closing the door behind her. 

***

Darcy’s life settled into a predictable pattern once more and another two months seemed to pass like silk through her fingers. She made no further progress with the Soldier. Their evening conversations remained nonexistent save for his stilted proposals and her rote reply. 

The only real change was the way spring had begun to creep in slowly, much slower than she would have liked. The temperatures grew less frigid, the sun warmer, the days longer. She spent more time outdoors, sometimes helping Bobbi or Hunter when they let her, sometimes just wandering the grounds, searching for the first shoots of daffodils and irises, snowdrops and hepatica, to come bursting up through the patches of snow. The castle itself grew suffocating the longer she remained there. Living there left her feeling uninspired and dull, as if her mind was slowly rotting away with all her idleness. There was not enough change or challenge, not enough variety in her daily life and she grew listless and unsatisfied. 

The others tried to cheer her up, and she appreciated their efforts, but they had their own duties to attend to and she could not expect them to keep her entertained at all hours. And the Soldier was obviously a lost cause. He still was incapable of interacting with her with any kind of satisfying conversation. She found she rather pitied him, and her fear of him sputtered out entirely. As they say, familiarity breeds contempt, or at the very least it breeds indifference. 

Free of fear, her mind began toying with the idea of running away and returning to her family. She briefly considered that Daisy would be hurt by her absence, but the overwhelming appeal of escape brushed aside those concerns. The longer she played with the idea, the more plausible it became, until, after several weeks of mulling it over, she realized she had an entirely intact plan of escape. Really, the only thing she had left to do would be to execute it. 

She contemplated her situation for another week, debating whether or not she was truly willing to risk it. After one particularly dull day where she was forced to stay inside due to an unexpectedly late snowstorm, she snapped and made her decision to escape as soon as the storm passed. It was another three days before the weather became agreeable and she made subtle actions to enact her plan. She sat down that evening to take her meal with the Soldier, a thrum of anticipation and anxiety drawing tight between her shoulders. 

He stood by the hearth as Darcy ate and ferreted away bits of bread and fruit into the hidden pockets of her dress to save for her journey that night. With his back to her, he did not notice her actions or odd behavior. When she had hidden away as much food as she could plausibly carry without giving herself away, she left her chair to come stand beside him. It was the closest she had been to him since the night he had caught her in his rooms, though he was still at least an arm's length away. Neither one of them looked at the other, their regard reserved for the flaming logs in front of them. Darcy folded her hands demurely behind her back, waiting for his inevitable proposal. She did not have to wait long. 

“Will you marry me?” he asked it softly, the sound slightly muffled by his mask. 

Darcy drew in a slow breath and released it as she turned to look at him,  _ really _ look at him. He met her scrutiny unflinchingly. 

“No,” she breathed out. His blue eyes looked so very sad and old in that moment, and she drew closer without thought, lifting her hand slowly to place it over the red star that adorned his metal arm. The plates shifted strangely under her hand but she tucked away the sensation to examine later. “No,” she repeated, gazing up at him. “I will not marry you. I will  _ never _ marry you,” she added firmly, but as gently as she could. 

His brow furrowed and she saw sorrow and confusion swirl around in the depths of his eyes. She did not know what possessed her to do it, but she found herself stretching up onto her tiptoes and leaning in to press a kiss against his cheek. Her warm lips met cool leather and she realized what she was doing; her sympathetic heart really could not be trusted. She stepped away from the Soldier, whispering goodbye and leaving before he could register what had just happened. 

She made haste to her bedchambers, changing out of her dress into a tunic and pants and bundling up her stolen goods into a knapsack. She sat by her window, staring out as the night sky filled with twinkling stars and the waning moon began to rise. Finally, by pale moonlight she pulled her heavy travelling cloak and sturdy boots on, gathered up her knapsack and crept quietly from her chambers. 

With her heart in her throat, she tread on silent feet, pausing in the shadows every so often to assure herself that all was quiet. Darcy quickly let herself out one of the smaller castle side entrances and scurried out into the gardens. Again she kept to the shadows, but her pace quickened and the closer she got to the unguarded gate, the less frequently she stopped to check that she was not being followed. At last she came to the gate and she wondered if they would even open for her at all. She gripped one side and pulled it towards herself on blessedly silent hinges, then slipped through gap she made, closing the gate behind her. 

She panted into the chill night air, her breath forming a pale cloud in front of her lips. She looked back towards the place of her captivity and saw no signs of movement, no alarm sounded, no one chasing after her. She wanted to laugh, to cry out in relief and triumph, but she hobbled the desire in favor of caution. Turning her back on the castle, Darcy wandered off the path far enough that she could still keep it in sight to travel alongside it, but the trees would hide her from anyone approaching on the road. She started off with a trot, wanting to move with haste, but not so quickly that she might turn an ankle on an unfortunately placed tree root. 

In this manner, she traveled for what had to be the better part of an hour. At that time, she came across a little stream, grown fat with the freshly melted snow. She decided to rest a minute at its edge to catch her breath and take a few refreshing sips. It was bitterly cold against her tongue and lips, and her teeth ached with it, but the water soothed her parched throat all the same. Having drunk her fill, she sat quietly, garnering her energy to begin her trek again. Not far off, she heard the distinctive howl of a wolf. The cry sent a primal shiver down her spine and she rose quickly to her feet, her tiredness suddenly forgotten. She continued at her moderate pace, but her ears pricked as more howls began to sound, coming closer and from nearly every side. Darcy clamped down on the panic rising in her breast and her feet churned faster in the snow. 

She sped through the trees and suddenly found herself bursting out into a rocky clearing. A sharp howl sounded from just beyond the edge of the trees and her head snapped around to follow the sound. As she was not looking where she was going, she stepped on one of the smaller boulders that littered the clearing. It shifted beneath her foot, causing her to tumble forward onto her hands and knees. Cursing herself and the state of her now bleeding palms, she scrambled back up on her feet. A chorus of howls sounded on every side of her now, just beyond her sight in the line of trees. She turned in a tight circle, cradling her hands to her chest, her head whipping back and forth in search of an escape route. The chorus of howls faded and was replaced by a single, distinctly male chuckle. Darcy startled backwards as a man appeared not ten feet in front of her, crouched on top of a jagged outcropping of rock. He smiled darkly at her and leapt down from his perch, stalking slowly towards her. 

It was hard to decipher much about the man in the dim moonlight, but his hair and eyes shone inky black, his face was dotted with stubble, and his body moved with a deadly grace that set her teeth on edge. 

“Well looky here, boys,” the man called out. “Looks like we’ve found ourselves a tasty little morsel tonight.” His pronouncement was greeted with laughter from several male throats. Darcy’s eyes darted around and she counted at least fifteen men now flanking her in the clearing. Fear twisted like a knife in her gut as she realized who these strange men were. 

She had heard many stories of the Wolves, an infamous band of thugs-for-hire that roamed the land. They were ruthless, enjoying the unsavory tasks that they were hired for far more than what was natural, and often engaging in unsavory tasks without pay just to suit their own perverse pleasures. Their leader edged closer to her, folding his arms across his chest and circled her slowly. 

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing out here in the woods at night? Hasn’t anyone ever told you that there are wolves out here?” he teased and the men surrounding them guffawed and gave off animalistic yelps and howls. 

“Please,” she murmured, curling in tighter to herself. “I just want to go home.” 

The man circled around in front of her, close enough to reach out and tug her hood back from her face. “Mmm, very pretty.” His hand traced along the edge of her hood, coming to rest against the clasp at her throat. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this miss, but you’re trespassing in these woods, and me and my boys have been paid a great deal of gold to keep out trespassers. Now, I know a sweet little thing like you didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sure you just wandered here by accident, so I’ll make a deal with you.” He leaned in closer to her, as if telling her something in confidence. 

“If you can give me some kind of payment, I can make sure me and my boys look the other way while you head on home and you won’t have any trouble from our beneficiary.” 

“I’m sorry-sir, I don’t-”

“Sir?” he scoffed. “The name’s Brock Rumlow. But you can call me Brock, sweetheart. All my friends do,” he said smoothly. 

Darcy hesitated but then continued. “I’m sorry...Brock, but I’ve no money to pay you with. I promise you I mean no harm to your beneficiary or his property, I am just trying to get back home to my family.”

Brock stepped closer into her space, a sinister grin distorting what would have been handsome features. “Ya see,” he whispered to her, “I was kinda hoping you’d say that.” Where his hand still lingered at the clasp of her cloak, the fingers tightened and he pulled her flush against his chest. “There’s all kinds of ways for a pretty girl like you to pay a man.” 

Darcy sucked in a breath in preparation to scream but it was cut off by Brock’s mouth crashing down on top of hers with enough force that she could feel her lips bruise and split against her teeth. His hand darted into her hair, holding her tight against his mouth and his other arm wrapped around her waist, trapping her to him. Panic froze her body and then she was twisting in his arms, desperate to get him off of her. She swung her legs, hoping to catch him with a swift kick between his legs but the man merely laughed and pulled her roughly to his side. 

“Would ya look at that,” he whooped. “I got a live one tonight!” 

Mocking laughter filled her ears and Darcy struggled all the harder, sucking in a breath of air and releasing it with a series of wordless shrieks. Brock’s hand came down to clamp over her mouth.

“Now, now, sweetheart. You’re likely to burst a man’s ears with screaming like that. I’d hate to have to gag you,” he leered at her and it was clear that he actually felt quite the opposite. 

Anger flared in Darcy’s chest and she yanked against his hold on her waist and simultaneously bit down furiously on the hand covering her mouth. Brock cursed and jerked his hand from her face. Darcy was pleased to see a thin trickle of blood sliding down his palm. 

Her pleasure did not last long. Brock drew the hand back and brought it down cruelly against her cheek in a backhanded slap that had her seeing stars and stumbling off balance. Brock jerked her upright by her upper arm, his fingers bruising her soft skin beneath his iron grip. He stuck a finger in her face, his eyes boring into hers. 

“See, that wasn’t very nice and now there are going to be consequences. I  _ was _ just gonna play with you myself but now I think I’ll let my men play with you for a while after I’m finished.” The other men hollered gleefully and Brock smirked down at her shock-frozen features. He gestured for one of his men to come forward and bind her hands. “Wouldn’t want you to ruin my fun,” he explained and then shoved a greasy rag into her mouth, muffling her shouts of protest. 

He swung his leg out behind her knees, knocking her to the ground where she landed painfully on one shoulder and hip. Her shoulder throbbed in time with the frantic beating of her heart as Brock knelt over her, roughly shuffling her legs to either side of his hips. She twisted, trying to scramble away from him but another pair of hands gripped her shoulders and slammed her back onto the ground. Her head cracked against a rock and the rough earth dug into her shoulder blades. Muffled screams tore at her throat as she tried desperately to buck him off of her. Tears streamed down her face and Brock, noticing them, leaned forward to lick a stripe up her cheek, grunting in satisfaction. He leant back and his hand went to the ties of her breeches, the other settling at her hip to keep her still. 

Something inside Darcy cracked a little bit, and she wondered briefly if she was going mad. It seemed as if her screams were multiplying and spreading beyond her body, circling out into oblivion. It took her a long moment to realize that not all of the screams belonged to her. 

Brock’s hand paused in its work and then he was jerked backwards by his hair and thrown some ten feet away, his neck at an unnatural angle and his body eerily still. Darcy nearly fainted with the relief of no longer feeling the oppressive weight of his hands and body on her. It was then that she noticed that the man who had been holding her shoulders down had released her and was rushing toward a spot in the clearing where the Wolves seemed to be cavorting in a swirl of violence. 

Darcy did not waste time trying to decipher just what in the hell they were all doing. She scuttled back, partially hiding herself behind the outcrop of rock that Brock had originally appeared from. She raised her bound hands to jerk the wad of dirty cloth from her mouth and retched into the snow. For once in her life she welcomed the sour taste of her sick, finding it far more pleasant than the lingering taste of her gag. Spitting out the last of her sick, she viciously tore at the bindings on her wrists with her teeth until the knots parted and her hands were free. 

The sounds of fighting nearby brought her attention back to the roiling throng of men. She was surprised to see that there were significantly fewer men fighting and a fair bit more bodies littering the ground. With the crowd thinned to probably half its original size, Darcy was able to see a bright flash of silver by the light of the moon. She gasped as her eyes made sense of the shapes and she realized that the Wolves were all circling around the Soldier, fighting him with knives and knuckles. She thought one man against twenty should have been impossible odds, but the increasing number of dead Wolves on the forest floor spoke otherwise. 

The Soldier was a miracle to watch, a killing machine so efficient and brutal it was almost beautiful. His movements were focused and graceful, his limbs twisting and swinging lethally around him. When he had downed all but a handful of men, the remaining men seemed to all come to the same conclusion at once and turned tail and ran, disappearing into the trees, many of them leaving trails of blood behind them. Darcy would not be surprised if more than one of them succumbed to their wounds that night.

The Soldier stood in the center of the massacre, feet planted wide and panting into the night air as the wind whipped his hair around his face. After a moment his heavy frame swayed and listed to one side. He landed on the earth heavily, balanced on one knee and the palm of his metal arm. Darcy stumbled forward from her hiding place, concern etched between her brows. She stopped short when his head snapped up in attention and his free hand whipped out in front of him, his fingers curled around a wicked looking knife. Blood dripped from its tip onto the mud and snow churned ground. Darcy blinked at the knife and then met the Soldier’s eyes. 

“Darcy,” he breathed out, gravel in his voice. It sent goosebumps prickling over her skin to hear him say her name. She was not sure she had ever heard him say it before. Until that moment she was not even sure if he  _ knew _ her name. “Are you hurt?” he asked shakily.    


She shook her head, dumbfounded. “A few bumps and bruises, nothing more serious than that.” 

His eyes fell closed and he took a long slow breath before he opened them again. She watched as he wiped his knife first through the snow and then against his pant leg. Knife relatively clear of blood, he resheathed it at his thigh. With a groan he staggered slowly to his feet and lumbered past the bodies that ringed him on either side, including Brock’s. Darcy found a sick satisfaction in the way Brock’s unseeing eyes stared out into the night, the life drained from them. A sharp spike of rage welled up in her and she was struck by the desire to drive the heel of her boot into his pallid face until his skull caved in. 

The Soldier was nearly to Darcy when she saw his knees buckle. The movement jerked her from the red haze of her rage. Without thinking she rushed to his side, propping him up on her shoulder while he got his legs back under him. His flesh arm draped heavily across her shoulders and she steadied him against her with a hand at his lower back and the other wrapped around the wrist dangling across her shoulder. He inhaled sharply and she turned her head to peer up at him. Her stomach knotted and dropped at how close his face was to her, and something like guilt cloyed at her. His blue eyes cleared and sharpened and she could see hurt shining brightly from them.

“Why did you leave?” It was perhaps one of the longest sentences she had ever heard him speak that was not one of his proposals, and it needled at her to hear the wounded tone of them. The stress of the evening, or perhaps the last several months, pressed down on her all at once and something inside her splintered. 

“Are you serious? Why did I leave?” she asked, incredulous. “Well, for one thing, you have been holding me captive from my family, my home, for months! For another, I am so utterly and completely  _ bored!”  _

Once the words were out, she could not seem to staunch their flow. “You have me trapped at your castle and treated like some fancy lady where all my needs are taken care of for me so all I have to do all day is sit around and let my mind rot. I think I’ve explored every inch of the castle and grounds now, read every book in the library--including the  _ military _ ones!--trying  _ desperately _ to find some way to occupy my time! I could not take this dull existence a moment longer!” She was breathing heavily by that point and glaring defiantly up into the Soldier’s face. 

A crease appeared between his brows as he blinked slowly down at her, seemingly digesting her verbal onslaught. “So you...ran away?” he puzzled. 

“Yes! I figured I would either be successful in my escape or you would catch me and kill me, which, in the very least, would prove to be  _ exciting!”  _

There was a beat of silence and then, “You could have said something…”

Darcy’s brows rose high on her forehead and her voice grew shrill. “To you? Are you mad? Until this moment, I was not even sure you could utter a phrase that wasn’t asking me to wed you.”

The Soldier winced. “I-I can. Speak, that is. It is difficult for me though...my mind-it’s...it’s all muddled up. I don’t know how to speak to a beautiful woman anymore. If I ever did?” The last sentence seemed to be more to himself than her and his head tilted to one side as his brows drew together in confusion. 

Darcy stared silently at him. “Are you....are you trying to be  _ charming?”  _ she finally asked.

He blinked rapidly twice. “No...Yes?” he asked. “Is it working?”

Darcy barked out a harsh laugh. “I think one of those Wolves knocked your brains loose.”

The Soldier gave a soft groan at her words and dropped his head into his metal palm. “Possibly,” he admitted. 

“Come on, Soldier,” Darcy sighed, resigned to the fact that her escape had been for nothing. Despite everything, she could not just abandon him there in the woods after he had rescued her. Damn her bleeding heart. 

“We should get you to Jemma.” She straightened under his bulk, tucking in tighter to his armpit and wrapping her arm tightly around his waist. He jerked under her touch, yelping in pain and swaying precariously against her for a moment. When he had steadied himself, they began to trudge back in the direction of his castle. Darcy peered down at her fingers in the dark where they were clamped across his ribs, noting the telling wetness now oozing between them.

“By the realms, is that  _ blood?”  _ she asked. 

The Soldier grunted. “Killing is a bloody business,” he said flatly. 

“Yes, but I was under the impression that it’s supposed to be the  _ other _ man’s blood and not your own.”

The Soldier stumbled and then righted himself. “Quiet, girl,” he huffed. “Next time  _ you _ can fight off the score of brigands if you are just going to criticize my methods.”

“Being stabbed is a method?” she asked archly. 

He stopped in his path to stare down at her. “....I liked you better when you only glared at me and told me ‘no.’”

“Oh but this is  _ so _ much more entertaining than a ridiculous marriage proposal every night,” she said, her eyes alight with glee. 

The Soldier closed his eyes and gave a long-suffering sigh. “Please stop talking and help me get to Jemma before I bleed out.”

Darcy snorted then gave a partial curtsy, or the closest she could manage while under his bulk. “Yes, my lord,” she simpered.

The Soldier groaned, either in pain or embarrassment, and Darcy’s responding laugh rang out into the cold night air. 

After the gruelling trek back to the castle, they were both shaky with exhaustion and covered in the Soldier’s blood. Coulson had quickly ushered them to a seldom used parlor nearby and summoned Jemma from her sleep. Jemma had taken one look at the Soldier, given a chirp of dismay, and set right to mending his many wounds. Her gaze scanned perfunctorily over Darcy’s less severe injuries and she requested Coulson send up a stiff drink and a blanket for Darcy. 

Now that they were safe within the castle walls, the Soldier’s strength seemed to be finally leaving him. He slumped heavily in the chair he had been guided into, his eyes fluttering open and closed as he drifted in and out of consciousness. 

Jemma grunted and wrestled with his jacket, the blood soaked leather making it even more difficult to maneuver than usual. Darcy stepped up to help the other woman, and between the two of them they wrestled the Soldier out of his clothes and down to his undergarments. 

Darcy was shocked to see the extent of his injuries now that they were not hidden behind heavy layers of black clothing. She did not think there was a square inch of him that wasn’t either bleeding or bruised. Jemma clucked her tongue in dismay, settling her hands at her hips for a moment before diving in to heal the deepest wounds first. The stab wound below his ribs that Darcy had found initially was one of the worst, second only to the long, deep gash that ran down the outside of his right thigh. By the time Jemma’s magic had joined the split skin together seamlessly, Coulson reappeared with Darcy’s drink and blanket. He tucked the blanket around her shoulders and pushed the cup into her hand. She downed it in three large gulps, sputtering as it burned a path to her belly. 

The drink did seem to give her a second wind as she continued to assist Jemma. Coulson appeared at her side at some point, a basin of fresh water and hand towels in his arms. He urged her to step aside and rest while he helped Jemma, but Darcy refused. She was the reason he was so gravely hurt, the least she could do was to help repair him. Darcy set to work washing the blood from the Soldier’s skin, allowing Jemma to catch any cuts or bruises that could have been hidden by the blood. With his major lacerations closed up, Jemma began to heal the ugly bruises splotched across his back and abdomen and a particularly nasty black eye. 

Darcy took her blood soaked rag and dipped it into a fresh bowl of water, the blood furling out in ruby tendrils between her fingers and tainting the fresh water. It looked garish against her pale, thin fingers and she swallowed against the dryness in her throat. Squeezing the excess water out, she brought the cloth to his forehead, dabbing a cut that was tucked high against his hairline on his left side. 

As soon as Darcy made the first gentle brush over the cut, the Soldier’s eyes snapped open and his metal fist came up to grasp her wrist. Tears pricked at her eyes at the way the bones of her wrist ground together beneath his hand. She blinked them away and met his wide, terror-stricken gaze. 

“It’s alright, Soldier,” she murmured, struggling to keep her voice gentle. “ It’s Darcy. I’ll not hurt you. It’s  _ Darcy.” _

The grip on her wrist loosened slightly and his eyes flicked over her face until recognition dawned in them. His eyes fluttered closed again, a relieved sigh shaking his chest. His fingers around her wrist loosened completely, and his metal hand landed on the arm of his chair with a heavy plop. 

She rubbed idly at her bruised wrist. Jemma caught her eye, concern shining from her face. “I’m fine,” Darcy assured her and then returned to the cut at his forehead. 

He jerked slightly at the touch, his eyes moving rapidly beneath their lids. She stilled her hand and watched him for another moment. Before bringing the cloth once more to his forehead, she began to hum lowly in her chest, something soft and absent-minded that she had heard her father hum to himself often when he was deep in thought. It was an earthy, uncomplicated tune that she associated with Home and comfort and she thought it might reach the Soldier’s mind and settle him. 

This time when she went to dab at his cut, he did not stir. She swept his hair back to cleanse the blood from where it had started to cake in his hair. As she did so, she realized that her hand rested against his face exactly as Madame Hydra’s had when she had erased his mind. She jerked her hand away, scrubbing the dirty feeling from her palm on the front of her tunic. 

Once he was relatively clean and fully healed, with the help of Trip and Coulson, they laid him out on a pallet on the floor to rest while Jemma tended to Darcy’s injuries. She sat as still as she could in her chair while Jemma’s hands fluttered to and fro from each battered part of her body. While she sat, Darcy could not help but watch the slow rise and fall of the Soldier’s chest where he lay in front of the fire. Coulson had brought another blanket to keep him warm, but his arms and chest peeked out from the top of the blanket. He was well muscled; she would have been an idiot not to notice, and his skin had been surprisingly soft beneath her hands. Thoughtlessly her hands clenched together in her lap. She was struck with a sudden and deep desire to see him without that blasted mask. She wondered if he had a pretty face to match the pretty body it came with. Even the metal arm had a sinister beauty to it. 

Darcy shook her head, looking away from the Soldier to find Jemma staring at her. There was not much she could say so Darcy shrugged and smiled shamelessly at the other woman. Jemma huffed and her lips drew up into a knowing smile as her hands drifted around to a tender spot on Darcy's back. The ache there abated and her skin felt warmed from the inside out. 

“There,” Jemma said with finality. “Good as new. I suppose you’d like a hot bath and then off to bed?”

Darcy groaned at the thought. “Yes, please, that sounds wonderful.” 

Daisy appeared shortly thereafter and guided her out of the room. Darcy gave one last look at the Soldier where he lay breathing steadily on the floor. Trip moved into the doorway, partially blocking her view of the Soldier. 

“Don’t worry, girl. He’ll be just fine now. You go on and get some sleep,” he urged her in that warm, kind voice of his. She nodded at him and allowed Daisy to herd her down the hall like a docile lamb. 

A great steaming tub of water awaited her in her room when she arrived. She wasted very little time stripping bare and then sinking down into the hot water with a weary sigh. Daisy stayed with her, washing and brushing her hair for her as Darcy recounted the night’s events to her.  Darcy could see that her exodus had indeed affected Daisy, the hurt clear in  the other woman’s eyes. She tried to apologize but Daisy would not hear it, claiming that she understood Darcy’s motives. 

When she came to the place in her story where she had to tell of her encounter with the Wolves, tears came unbidden to her eyes, welling up to spill in big, fat drops into the tub. Daisy’s arms snaked around her shoulders and Darcy leaned back into the fairy’s embrace, letting the anguish rise up and swallow her whole. Through the storm of her hysterics, Daisy held her all the while until her sobs petered out and the bath grew cold. When it came time for her to withdraw from her bath, Daisy dried and dressed her with especially tender hands. As Darcy crawled between the covers of her bed, exhaustion weighing heavy on her body, she felt her friend slip in behind her, enveloping her in a warm embrace; a barrier between Darcy and her bad dreams and worse memories. 


	10. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little forward movement in the tentative relationship between Darcy and the Soldier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update! I got distracted by other WIPs and by life in general. Hope this makes up for it!
> 
> Many thanks to my fragile, Italian bread baby ladyaudiophile for reading all my work and making it better. And not murdering me for my love of double prepositions.

The next day, Darcy awoke feeling worn and achy, like the first few days after an illness when the fever has finally broken and the body is left to heal what the disease has ravaged. She felt no shame in staying in bed for the whole of the day, watching the sun rise and fall from beneath the softness of her bedding. Her skin felt too raw to bear anything but the gentle weight of her linen sheets. 

Sometimes Daisy joined her, usually with quiet chatter and an intent to make her eat something, but more often than not Darcy was left alone. Truly, she preferred it that way. Her mind was a mess, weighed down by sickening memories and  _ what ifs?  _ What if the Soldier had not appeared when he did? What if he’d never come at all? What if she had left earlier, or later? What if?  _ What if? _

Within, her thoughts twisted and folded in on themselves, leaving her quiet and not particularly good company. She wondered briefly if that was why the Soldier had always been so reticent with her.  _ Perhaps, when a mind is fractured it creates a disconnect between the inner and outer workings of a person?  _ It certainly felt that way to Darcy as she huddled in her bed, cracked and alone. 

The day after that was easier, for as little patience as Darcy had for others, she had even less for herself. She rose with the sun, something unlike her entirely, but she was tired of her own moping and she rather felt she had something to prove. She was safe, relatively unharmed, and she would no longer dwell on the countless possibilities that could have been. At least, to the best of her ability she would not dwell. 

She dressed herself brusquely before throwing back the heavy curtains that hung across her windows. Prior to that morning, she had yet to open the windows to her room as the cold had been quite the deterrent, but this morning she embraced the brittle bite of winter that still clung to the early spring mornings. She sucked in great gulps of air, filling her lungs to near pain before releasing her breath. This. This was better. She was alive and stronger than she had ever thought she could be. It was a new day and she would be reborn with the sun. 

She braided her heavy curls back away from her face, wrapping the plait around her skull and pinning it to keep it off her neck. She checked her reflection in the mirror, eyes searching for any sign of a woman broken. She forced a smile and her reflection returned it. The smile dropped and she hummed in displeasure, pressing her palms to her cheeks. She pinched at the apples of her cheeks and bit her lips, forcing color back into them. She deemed the flush on her face an improvement and left her room in search of breakfast in the kitchen. 

Upon entering the kitchen, she found Jemma shaping rolls to be placed in the oven, a charming dusting of flour across her pert nose. Darcy rapped her knuckles gently against the doorway as she entered, alerting the other woman to her presence. Jemma glanced up from her work table, her stern look of concentration shifting and brightening to a genial smile. 

“Good morning,” she chirped, swiping a loose strand of hair out of her face with the back of her wrist. “You’re up early.” 

Darcy nodded, humming in agreement. “Yes, I felt the need to get out of bed. Clear the cobwebs out of my head, you know.” Her shoulder lifted in a half shrug, discomfort seeping into the gesture. 

Jemma’s expressive eyes softened, her brows drawing together and creasing slightly between her eyes. “Are you going to be alright?” she asked gently. She extended one flour dusted hand to clasp lightly at Darcy’s fingers. Darcy squeezed the other woman’s fingers in return, bobbing her head in reassurance, forcing her lips up into a smile. 

“Yes, of course. I am quite alright.” At Jemma’s slightly skeptical look Darcy added, “Really.” 

Jemma’s eyes roved over her face for a brief moment and then she nodded and squeezed Darcy’s hand once, twice, and then withdrew it to return to shaping her dough. As she worked, she prompted Darcy to help herself to one of the rolls that she had baked earlier and were now cooling in the window. Darcy plucked a steaming roll with tips of her fingers, bouncing it from hand to hand until it was cool enough for her to tear into without burning her tongue. Jemma pushed a plate of butter and a small jar of plum jam in front of her, producing the first fully genuine smile from Darcy that morning. She ate her breakfast happily, sucking jam greedily from where it clung to her fingertips. 

After devouring another roll and a small hunk of sharp cheese, Darcy felt full and fortified enough to ask after a certain mutual acquaintance of theirs. 

“How is he?” she blurted, unsure how to begin the conversation with any sense of grace. 

Jemma’s eyes flicked up to meet hers and then back down to where she was finely slicing what looked like some sort of root vegetable. “He is fine,” she finally answered. “Alive, at any rate. He needed a couple transfusions after I healed him, of course, but overall he has recovered quite well from his injuries.” 

Darcy nodded to herself, her fingers folding the hem of her tunic back on itself, then righting it before folding it once more. “I’d like to speak with him.” 

The steady thunk of Jemma’s knife on the wooden cutting board stopped and Darcy looked up to see Jemma watching her with wide eyes. “You would?”

“Yes,” she replied, somewhat defensively. “I have some questions for him that I would like answered.” 

“He’s not especially good at answering questions…”

Darcy snorted inelegantly. “Of that, I am well aware. But I expect him to at least try.” She bit at her lips, mulling over her words for a moment. “After what happened in the woods, I believe that we may have reached somewhat of a...truce between the two of us.”

“Oh?” Jemma’s response was mild but she could not quite hide the eagerness humming beneath the surface of the word. “Well that’s...that’s quite good, don’t you think?” Jemma didn’t wait for Darcy’s agreement, nodding to herself and returning to her vegetable slicing. 

“He’s in his rooms, should you desire to speak with him right away. Though perhaps you might think to knock this time…” 

Darcy did not miss the way Jemma bit down on her cheek in an attempt to stifle a smile. She narrowed her eyes at the other woman and lobbed an errant piece of cheese at her, which Jemma caught deftly between her teeth. “Yes perhaps you are right, Jemma dear. I shall be sure to mind my manners this time.”

“Lovely,” she replied, smiling brightly and unsubtly shooing Darcy out of her kitchen. 

Darcy wasn’t sure if the journey to the Soldier’s chambers was faster or slower this time around. Perhaps it was both. In any case, she found herself outside his door, heart racing and knuckles poised to knock over aged wood. She felt a fool. She was braver than this, wasn’t she? 

She gathered her fortitude and knocked, waiting a fleeting few seconds before entering at the soft beckoning from within. The Soldier must have been expecting someone else, if his reaction to her appearance was anything to judge by. He was sitting at his desk where it was situated to the left of the wide entry to his balcony. The sun was well risen now, the bright light pouring into the room and gilding everything within, including the Soldier. 

He began to turn his head to address her over his shoulder, but his mouth snapped shut with a quiet click as soon as he caught sight of her. He rose quickly from his chair to face her, surprise registering on his sleep rumpled features. Darcy’s eyes roved over him before she dropped them to the floor. Backlit as he was by the early morning light, the white linen nightshirt he wore really didn’t do much to hide the silhouette of his frame beneath the garment. 

“You’re not Trip.”

Darcy chuckled tightly and scrubbed her damp palms against the thighs of her cotton breeches. 

“Uh, no. I am not.”

“Why are you here?” The question was rudely blunt, but the uncertainty in his voice was quite clear so she took no offense to his tone. 

“I thought perhaps we should, well, talk? Or something,” She shrugged and glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Um, once you’ve put on some clothes. Please.”

From the edge of her vision, she could see him glance down at himself.

“I already have clothes on?” 

She resisted the very strong desire to roll her eyes at his obtuse nature. “Yes, but maybe you’d like to add pants to your ensemble? Something a little less...transparent?” she suggested, gesturing vaguely at him while keeping her eyes locked on the high-backed chairs surrounding his hearth and absolutely  _ not _ blushing to her hairline. 

“Oh,” he grunted. 

She hummed noncommittally, relieved that he seemed to be in the mood to acquiesce. She heard the squeak of his wardrobe doors opening, followed by the soft rustle of fabric as he dressed. She loosed a breath when he stepped into her line of sight, fully clothed, and looking as perplexed as ever. 

In her most civil tone, she indicated towards the chair and suggested they sit and speak for a while. He watched her warily, as if she were a wild beast that would turn on him at any moment. She ignored his obvious discomfort--and her own as well--settling into a chair and again waggled her fingers at the seat across from her with a tight lipped smile.  At her urging, he edged over to his seat, sinking slowly into it. They were both silent as they stared at one another, the awkwardness of the moment settling heavily in the air between them. 

“So,” Darcy said, her patience evaporating. “I have a couple questions for you.” At his look of immediate reticence she lifted her palms in a placating gesture. “Questions easily answered,” she assured him. “Probably,” she muttered to herself. She was surprised when he snorted and she caught the barest glimmer of humor in his eyes. Bolstered by that glimmer, she launched into her questioning. 

“How did you find me?” It seemed the easiest to ask and be answered. 

“Tracked you.”

“Like a hunter?”

His eyes flashed with something akin to dark humor. “Like a wolf,” he rumbled. “Tracked your scent.” 

“I am unsure whether that is disturbing or not. In any case, as far as wolves go, I must say I have encountered worse breeds,” she said and repressed a shudder. 

“Is that a compliment?” 

“No,” she replied flatly, biting into her cheek to keep from smirking. “How did you know I’d escaped?” 

The wariness returned to the Soldier’s eyes. “I felt it. When you passed the outer gate, I felt it.” 

“What? Why?” 

“Because of our contract.” 

Darcy blinked slowly at him. “Excuse me? What contract would that be? I do not recall signing any such thing.” She tried to stymie her irritation and waited for his response. 

“You are bound to me, by contract of blood, according to fae law.” He said this as if it was common knowledge that she should be aware of. 

She was most certainly  _ not _ aware of anything of the sort. 

In a dangerously honeyed tone, she replied, “Soldier, what in the Hel are you talking about? Blood? Fae law? I have no knowledge of these things and if you value any relationship with me you will enlighten me  _ immediately.” _

The Soldier interlaced his fingers together, twisting them and looking distinctly uncomfortable. His metal arm whirred and clicked in a manner that was most disconcerting, but she had the feeling he could hardly help it so Darcy ignored the odd sound. 

“I don’t...I don’t understand how it all works. But how it was explained to me…” he trailed off, eyes slightly unfocused and hands twitching. “Fairy magic is governed by natural laws...strict laws, with stark punishments. When your sister was shown hospitality here, and then attempted to steal from me, her life was forfeit to me. There had to be a recompense.” A muscle at his temple ticked and Darcy was certain he was clenching his jaw tightly beneath his mask. 

“But you didn’t want her.” 

“No. I needed...someone unattached.” 

“Because you need a wife. And you still don’t know why that is?” she inquired. 

“No.”

Darcy clicked her tongue and sighed, sinking back into her chair in resignation. “I thought as much.” 

He dropped his gaze to his knees. “When you took the rose, took her place…”

“Ah. Blood contract,” Darcy said with sudden clarity. “So when the thorns pierced my hands…”

“You were bound to me, yes.” 

Darcy covered her eyes with one hand, rubbing idly at a point of tension between her brows. “Lovely.” 

“Sorry,” he murmured, soft enough that she almost missed it. 

“I’m assuming the binding endures for the length of my life?” She sat forward in her chair, searching his gaze. 

“Yes.”

The weight of that settled in her gut like a rock. There really was no escaping him. 

“Why did you feel it when I crossed the gate?” she asked, curiosity momentarily overtaking her frustration. “Why not before? Or after? Is there a specific radius that I cannot cross without alerting you? If you were the one to leave, would  _ I  _ feel it?” 

The Soldier’s eyes widened. “That is a lot of questions.” 

Darcy dragged her hand down her face. “Good gods, man. They’re just questions. You act as if I’m subjecting you to tor-“ Darcy bit her lips together, aware of the indelicacy of where her line of thought was heading. She paused, cleared her throat, and then gently appealed to him. “Just start at the top and we’ll work our way down the list, shall we?”

He nodded and gathered his thoughts. “In the same way that you are bound to me, I am bound to the magic in this place. It is a part of me, or I am a part of it. I don’t really know how or why, I’m sorry. But when you cross the boundary, you leave me and all that I’m connected to. And I feel it. For your other questions, I have no answers.” 

Darcy nodded and hummed thoughtfully to herself. Until a thought occurred to her. “Wait, if you knew when I’d left...why in the Realms did it take you so long to save- to stop those men?” As she spoke, she began to shake with a slowly awakening rage. 

“You are fast, inhumanly so. You should have caught up to me in a heartbeat. Why,  _ why  _ did you wait until that-that  _ bastard  _ had me on the ground and bound and was mere moments from shoving his hands down my breeches?!” She was shouting now, breathing heavily and she was vaguely aware that she was standing, towering over the Soldier. He paled and stared at her with wide eyes. 

“Answer me! Were you debating whether or not to help me at all? Just there to enjoy the show? Or did you just want to wait for a more dramatic entrance so you could feel like the damned  _ hero?”  _

The Soldier’s hands dug into the arms of his chair as he looked up at her, paling even further and shaking his head. 

“No,” he uttered softly, a desperate note to his voice as he continued shaking his head emphatically. “I’d only just gotten there when I saw what was happening and- and stopped it.” He paused, eyes beseeching hers, and then continued on in a breathless rush. “I didn’t- I didn’t follow you right away, after you left. I was going to- was going to let you go.”

That gave her pause.

“Let me go? Go where?”

“Home.” 

She arched a brow, disbelief clear on her face. “Home?” 

He did not say anything in favor of swallowing audibly and jerking his head in a nod.

She stepped back from him, suddenly feeling faint. “For how long?”

“Forever.” 

Darcy felt as if her legs had been swept out from beneath her. With shaking hands, she reached behind herself, seeking out the arms of her chair and then sinking into it before her legs could actually give out on her. 

“I didn’t know about the bond at the time. Trip explained it to me yesterday...but I tried. I tried to let you leave. But I couldn’t.” His eyes begged for understanding, for forgiveness. 

“You were going to set me free?”

He nodded sharply at her. “Yes.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that. “But…. _why?”_

“Why? Because you hate it here. You hate  _ me.” _ He shifted in his seat and then rose from his place to stalk over and lean against the open balcony door, staring out at the castle grounds ablaze with sunlight. 

Gently and with great sorrow, he confessed, “I don’t- I don’t know why I need you, but I know that it’s not right. You’re a good person. You don’t deserve this fate. You didn’t deserve what those men were going to do to you either. I couldn’t save you from myself but I could stop  _ them  _ at least.” 

He kept his back to her, shame tightly bunching his shoulders. Darcy was rather glad he wasn’t looking at her at that moment, for she was appalled to discover that she was on the verge of crying. She tilted her head to the ceiling, blinking rapidly to clear the ridiculous dampness. She couldn't decide if she was in tears over his fate or hers. Though, she supposed, the two were now one and the same. 

She sniffed delicately and dropped her eyes back to his frame once she was certain she had thoroughly reigned in her tears. “Well, there’s nothing to be done about it now, I suppose. What’s done is done.” 

“Yes,” he replied darkly. “I have thoroughly damned you. Much like everything else I put my hands on.” 

“That is quite the gloomy outlook. Feeling a bit melodramatic today, Soldier?” 

He grunted in what could have been an aborted laugh. “Just being a realist. You don’t know the things I’ve done.” 

Oh, but she did. Or one tiny fragment of it, and that was far more than she ever wanted to know. 

Darcy suppressed a sigh and beckoned for him to rejoin her by the fire. 

“Come sit down. There’s no need to mope over by the window. Besides, trying to look at you in the sunlight is blinding me. It’s much too bright and far too early in the day for moping by open windows.” 

He lingered a moment longer, then finally turned and reseated himself by the fire, all the while staunchly refusing to meet her eyes. They sat in silence, both watching the flames dancing in the hearth, neither one knowing what to say to the other. 

Finally, Darcy decided she’d had enough awkward silence and took her leave. He followed behind her on silent feet so she was startled at his sudden closeness when she turned at the doorway to speak to him. Her throat closed over the words and she backed up a pace, leaving enough room that she didn’t have to continue to crane her neck to meet his gaze. The blue of his eyes was disarmingly soft at this distance and it sent a strange current of uncertainty through her. 

Not caring for the feeling, she filled the space with words, as she was wont to do. “I think we should attempt a friendship,” she spouted, “if for no other reason than we are stuck together for the remainder of my natural life and I honestly don’t think I can bear to have you stare at me sullenly until I die. Some semblance of friendship and conversation would be better. Probably.”

His bow wrinkled. “You want to be my friend?” 

Darcy pursed her lips, deeply questioning her sanity and life decisions, before diving head first and nodding firmly. “Yes.”

“...As you wish,” he murmured, his voice tinted with a hint of awe. 

She smiled, and a genuine one at that, and turned away from the door, only to turn back at the last second when another thought occurred to her. Of course, he’d been closing the door behind her and had stepped closer to do so, so she found herself chest to chest with him. She braced her splayed fingertips against his chest to keep from completely colliding into him and hastily took a step back. 

“Um, sorry. But, um, it has occurred to me that if we are going to be friends, I should probably have a proper name to call you by. I mean, I can’t keep referring to you as  _ the Soldier _ now can I?” She was mortified by the nervous titter that came out of her mouth and suppressed the urge to slap herself. 

The Soldier just stared at her for a long moment, then his eyes glazed and his breathing stuttered in his chest. “I think…” he began softly. Soft enough that she wouldn’t have heard it had they not been standing so close. “I think I was once called...James.”

A grin bloomed across Darcy’s face. “James? That’s a very nice name,” she commented sincerely. 

Something in his eyes shifted and he leaned into the doorframe in a posture that screamed  _ rake.  _

“Well, I’m a very nice man.” 

Darcy’s eyes widened and a choked giggle worked up her throat. “Are you, now?” 

James’ eyes darkened and bewilderment tugged at the skin of his brow. He straightened away from the door, reclaiming his normal posture of tense discomfort. 

“No. No I’m not,” he firmly replied. “I don’t know why I said that?” He looked at her as if she held the answer to the sudden shift in his demeanor. 

Darcy held her hands up and shook her head. “Your guess is as good as mine, friend.” She closed the inches between her palms and his chest to give a gentle pat. “I shall see you at dinner, I suppose. Let me know if you gain any clarity on the matter.” 

She swept away from the door and down a few steps of the staircase before throwing over her shoulder, “or if you feel inclined to revisit that demeanor. It’s rather more amusing than your usual conduct.” 

She heard his grumbled reply of, “Well, you’re no peach yourself, darling,” before the door clicked closed behind her. She brought her hand to her mouth, biting at her knuckles to muffle her snickers.

 

***

 

Darcy closed the leather bound book she’d been attempting to read, setting it to the side with a sigh. It was one she’d read twice through already and a third time really wasn’t keeping her attention any longer. At least the weather was nice. It was the warmest afternoon that the estate had experienced since, well, certainly long before she had ever arrived. She sat on a sunny patch of fresh grass where the snow had melted away long enough ago that the ground wasn’t too terribly damp beneath her backside. With the extra protection of her winter cloak spread out beneath her, she was quite comfortable and not in danger of ruining another of Raina’s ensembles. Today she had opted for one of the more impractical pieces in honor of the lovely spring weather. The wide skirt was made from a crisp, daffodil-yellow taffeta and was topped by a half-sleeved, off the shoulder bodice that looked as if it was constructed entirely out of fresh spring flowers. 

She stretched her legs out from where they were folded in front of her, leaning back on her palms and stretching her face up towards the lemon yellow sun. The lovely radiating heat of the sun’s rays sank into her cheeks, forehead, and bare shoulders. She closed her eyes and loosed another sigh, though this time in contentment. A prickle of awareness passed over her, like a physical caress across her shoulders. She suppressed a shiver and called out to the air around her.

“It’s bad manners to watch a woman from the shadows. At best it’s considered rude and at worst it is creepy. If you’re going to stare, you might as well come sit with me.” She let her eyes flutter open and swiveled her head until she spotted him tucked half behind a row of hydrangea bushes. His eyes widened at being caught and he froze in place. Darcy rolled her eyes and beckoned him over with one hand. 

He came slowly, his eyes guarded and movements jerky. Finally, he was standing beside her, his muddy boots an inch from the edge of her cloak. She reached over her skirts to tap at his laces.

“Take these off and have a seat, James.” 

He blinked at her and then crouched down to obey, deftly untying the laces and stepping out of them onto the edge of her cloak. Darcy grabbed the edge of her skirts and tucked them up close to her legs, patting at the now empty space beside her. She watched from the corner of her eye as he stiffly lowered himself beside her. They both sat silently, eyes straight forward and half-ignoring, half-fascinated by the person beside them. 

It was James who finally broke the strained silence. “I’m not sure this is better,” he grumbled.

Darcy turned her head to meet his eyes, a skeptical brow raised. “Than you hiding in the bushes like some degenerate? Yes, I believe this is better.” She ignored his answering scowl, her eyes roving over his face and hair. She reached a tentative hand towards his locks. “You’ve got…” she muttered and then picked out several pale blue hydrangea petals that had tangled into his hair. 

He held unnaturally still while she worked, not even breathing until she pulled her hand away. She opened her palm to display the captured petals. 

“See?” she admonished. “This is what happens when you go skulking around in the shrubbery, spying on innocent and unsuspecting women.”

James gaze bounced from her eyes to her palm. He extended his hand to pinch a few of the petals from her palm, careful not to make contact with her skin, and rolled them between the pads of his flesh fingers. 

“I’m pretty sure I’ve had worse things stuck in my hair before. Mainly bone shards and brain matter.”  

“Oh James. You are just the most delightful company to have,” she replied, saccharine sweet. 

He shrugged one shoulder, releasing the petals in hand to the light breeze swirling around them. “Only being honest. Would you rather I lie?”

Darcy chewed at her lower lip. “No, I suppose not. Friendship should be founded on honesty.” 

“Does that mean you will be honest with me?”

“Of course,” Darcy said, picking at one of the little white flowers sewn to her sleeve. “I’m an open book.”

“Why won’t you marry me?”

Darcy stilled, her eyes rising slowly to meet his. “Why do you want to marry me in the first place?” she countered. Before he could give his standard response, she held up a hand to stop him. “When you can answer that question for me, I will happily tell you all the reasons I don’t wish to marry you.”

His eyes darkened in a scowl. “Then we likely will both be waiting quite a long time for those answers. You say you want friendship and that it should include honesty. I have only ever been honest with you. I do not withhold answers to your questions. I simply do not always have any answers to give.” His tone was low, a current of frustration giving his voice an edge. “So why do you withhold answers from me when you know them? Is that fair or  _ honest?”  _ he continued, catching and holding her gaze. 

“I-” Darcy’s mouth hung open and she snapped it shut with a click of her teeth. She supposed he had a point, though it was one she only grudgingly wished to give him. “Yes, well, you trapped me here, so...you know, that wasn’t very fair either.” It wasn’t her most mature response. Or logical, for that matter. 

James huffed sharply through his nose, a muscle at his temple ticking beneath his skin. “Yes,” he replied, and she could hear it in his voice that he was gritting his teeth. “And I would undo my actions if I could. But as I cannot, nor did I fully understand my actions at the time, I would beg both forgiveness and perhaps some understanding.” He hauled himself abruptly to his feet and then began to hastily tug his boots back on. 

Darcy straightened, thrown by his sudden departure and the shame and anger rolling off him in waves. She was too startled to do anything but watch his back as he retreated in livid strides across the lawn. When he had disappeared into the castle, she pulled her knees to her chest, tucking her chin on top of them. His reaction to her reticence said much about him, possibly more than any previous interactions between them. 

She thought on this for a long while, long enough for the sun to sink low in the sky and the light breeze to turn too chilly for comfort. She gathered her cloak and her book, rucking her skirts up enough to keep them from dragging through the mud while still keeping the chill air off her legs. 

Darcy’s rooms were deliciously warm when she arrived; a friendly looking fire crackling away in the hearth. She toed her muddy boots off at the door so as not to track over the luscious rugs that lined her bedroom floor. She scurried over to the fire in her stocking feet, letting the heat seep into her chilled flesh. When her fingers and toes had returned to an acceptable degree of warmth, she wiggled out of her dress, throwing it carelessly over the back of a chair. She sniffed delicately at one shoulder, noting the acrid outdoorsy scent of a human body that’s been out and about in the noonday sun. With a wrinkle of her nose she headed to the little washbasin by her wardrobe, pouring in warm water from the magically heated pitcher beside it. Better to have a quick bath before heading down to dinner. She’d already offended James’ sensibilities, best not to offend his  _ senses _ as well. 

Feeling fresher and dressed in a pair of black linen pants and a loose lavender tunic, Darcy deemed herself acceptable for dinner and made to exit her room. Before she reached the door, her eyes caught on a spot of pale blue amidst the burgundy velvet of her bedding. Curious, she steered her steps from the door and towards her bed, finding a bundle of hydrangeas nestled in the center of her bed. Beneath them was a thick stack of parchment and a quill. She crawled onto her bed, absently bringing the flowers to her nose as she thumbed through the parchment. They were all blank, save for the top sheet, which was marred by a familiar scrawl, though this time the letters were strung together in a slightly smoother fashion. 

_ “Darcy, _

_ I am sorry for my anger earlier today. You have experienced great misfortune and much of it by my hand. You ask for friendship, but I should not expect it to come as easily as that. I must earn your companionship, and strive to make up for my misdeeds. This quill and this parchment is my first attempt at amends. They are enchanted things and if you write a letter on them, their magicks will create a copy that will appear wherever the recipient is at the time. Should the recipient write back to you on the opposite side of their copy, it will appear on the original. It is my hope that you will use these to communicate with your family since I cannot return you to them.  _

_ In sincere apology,  _

_ James” _

Darcy pressed the back of a shaking hand to her mouth, capturing the sob that was trying to force its way up her throat.  _ Jane,  _ she could speak to Jane again! She dashed at the tears blurring her vision, sweeping the parchment and quill over to the little writing desk that sat beneath one of her windows. There was just enough daylight left for her to see the lines of ink as she ran the tip of her quill over paper.

“ _ Jane? It’s Darcy. If you can read this, turn the sheet over and write back to me. I will receive it.”  _

Darcy watched the ink dry, waiting for some sign that it was working, her knee bouncing restlessly beneath the desk. When she was sure the ink wouldn’t smudge, she flipped the sheet over, holding her breath as the page remained painfully blank. Until…

_ “Darcy??”  _

Darcy hiccuped a sob that was joy and relief at once before hurriedly flipping to the front and madly writing out a summary of the events that had befallen her since last they parted. The two sisters wrote furiously back and forth for the better part of an hour until the page was filled with Darcy’s slanted, looping handwriting and Jane’s neat little block lettering. The page was also unsurprisingly damp, the ink running in spots where tears had stained the page. Darcy was filled with joy at having a piece of her life back, of having Jane and Thor back. Jane’s sharp humor was something she’d missed terribly. She was relieved to find that time was not too terribly mismatched between them. Jane and Thor were only a few short months ahead of Darcy as opposed to years. 

There was a bittersweetness to hearing of Jane and Thor’s marriage a few months prior. It was an important moment that she missed and could never get back. Jane was equally conflicted over the shift in the relationship between Darcy and James. She understood, or did her best to, but had difficulty equating the broken man that Darcy spoke of with the monster that had threatened her so many months ago. Most of all, she was just relieved that Darcy was healthy and  _ alive.  _ Not knowing if she had sentenced her own sister to death, or worse, had been haunting Jane all this while. It healed a rather gaping hole in both their hearts to be able to speak to one another again. 

Darcy was flooded with gratitude, and when she and Jane had written their goodbyes, she scooped up the hydrangeas, reverently placing them in a vase on her writing desk. Content with their arrangement, she made a dash from her rooms down to the private dining hall, not stopping until she had barrelled straight into the chest of the greatly perplexed Winter Soldier. She knew she must look a fool, hands grasping at his back and sobbing loudly into the leather across his chest like a distressed child. She noticed idly that his arms and hands hovered several inches away from her, as if he was afraid of catching whatever madness she was suffering from. With a great shuddering breath, she determinedly calmed herself, stepping away from him to give the poor man space to breathe again. 

“I got your gift,” she was finally able to utter with some clarity. 

“I can tell. However, based on your reaction, I cannot tell how well it was received.” he watched her warily, like she might launch herself at him again. 

With a blinding smile that stunned him she replied, “It was  _ very  _ well received.” Her smile softened to something less manic.  _ “James,”  _ she said on a heartfelt sigh. “You gave me back my family, I cannot thank you enough for that."

James’ eyes dropped to his boots, his ears pinking a bit behind his hair. “Yes well,” he began gruffly, “I took them away in the first place. I’m not so sure I deserve your gratitude.” Here he looked back up at her, hope shining in his eyes. “Though I would dearly desire your forgiveness. For many things.”

Darcy was fascinated by the man’s tenderness, the fragility that lay just beneath the nigh indestructible exterior. Her lips curved up into a gentle smile. “Then you have it.” 

The delicate skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled pleasantly and she could have sworn he was smiling brightly beneath his mask. It was an expression that she had not seen on his eyes yet. It suited him...very well, making the blue-grey sparkle. Darcy was interrupted from her musing over the color of his eyes by a loud rumble from her belly. She looked down at her middle, poking at the soft flesh next to her navel. 

“Hmm, perhaps we should sit?” she inquired, gesturing back towards the table that was heavily laden with delicious things. “I’m rather hungry.”

James snorted. “I’d noticed,” he replied pleasantly, turning to take his seat at the table. 

She stuck her tongue out at his back and then took her own chair before he could witness her insolence. She ate happily, humming in contentment as her belly began to fill and ease the ache from earlier. When she had finished, licking the last bits of caramel sauce from her thumb, she met James’ eyes. 

“I know you’re going to ask, so you might as well spit it out already,” she said, a hint of mischief peeking out from the corner of her smile. 

He narrowed unamused eyes at her and asked for her hand in marriage in a distinct monotone. 

Darcy smiled sweetly at him. “No thank you, James. I will not marry you.” 

James leaned back in his chair with a roll of his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Because I do not love you.” 

That got his attention. His back straightened and he leaned towards her. “You will only marry for love?”

“That is the dream, as they say,” she responded lightly. 

“What are your other reasons? For not marrying me?” The eagerness of his posture was matched in his tone. 

“For one, I do not know you all that well. You are more stranger than friend still, and it seems in poor taste to marry a stranger, don’t you think?”

He bobbed his head side to side in agreement. “And? You said you had many reasons.”

“I’ve never seen your face. I’ve seen you near naked, but I have not seen the majority of your face. What if you’re hideously ugly? It’s quite the gamble, unless I can get that mask off.” 

“And what if I’m handsome beneath this mask?”

“Are you?”

“...Probably?” James replied in a tone that did not give Darcy much confidence. 

“I apologize, but that does not give me much hope,” she chuckled. “I could not possibly marry you without knowing without a doubt that you’re not hiding an ugly mug. Can you imagine? What if we were to have children and they all came out looking like you?? I’m not willing to risk it.” 

“Do you want children?”

Darcy nearly choked on the glass of wine she’d been sipping at. “Ah, yes, um, perhaps, one day.”

He grew quiet, sensing her discomfort at the subject. His next question was voiced lightly, as if he did not care what the answer would be, though she was able to see through that fairly easily. 

“Have you ever...have you ever loved someone? Wanted to marry a particular person?” 

Stalling for time, she countered with, “Have you?” 

“Not that I can remember, but that’s not saying much, is it?” 

She gave a forced chuckle, more aware of how correct the statement was than perhaps he was. “No, I guess not. To answer your question, no. I have never been in love. At least, not the kind of love that inspires the longevity of marriage.” She didn’t meet his eyes, opting to peer down into the bottom of her empty cup. “The eligible young men of my home left much to be desired.” And that was an understatement. 

“Too ugly?” James teased.

“Too stupid. Or cursed with the inability to keep their hands to themselves.” She cleared her throat and poured herself another cup of wine to distract herself from the fact that she was blushing.

“Ah. Yes, I remember you threatening me for that violation.” 

“Yeah, well, you deserved it,” she grumbled in faux displeasure. “Though you  _ did  _ keep your hands in more respectable places than others have.” 

James furrowed his brow in obvious puzzlement. Darcy saw the moment that his eyes dipped down and then back up, comprehension dawning and a charming blush rising over his neck and ears. 

“Oh,” was his tight reply. 

Perhaps it was the wine, or the lingering giddiness of being able to speak to Jane again, but Darcy barked out a laugh and rose from her seat at the table to go stand beside him. She bent low, ensuring him a teasing peek down the front of her tunic, placed a hand on his shoulder and pressed her lips to his cheek. She didn’t linger, rising smoothly to thank him again for his gift and to bid him goodnight. 

She fell asleep that night to the permeating scent of hydrangea blossoms. 


	11. Gifts Between Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the slow burn goes from ice cold to room temperature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a roll! Banged this chapter out in 24 hours. Now I will return to my cave to hibernate for three weeks. 
> 
> Thank you to ladyaudiophile for always giving me the validation that I crave and making my work make sense.

The enchanted parchment turned out to be a stroke of genius on his part. In many ways. He knew of its availability as his fae attendants tended to use it to communicate with one another when they were too busy to poof off to the other side of the castle for a chat. He had been struck with the idea that it could possibly work as a way of communication for Darcy and her family. He was pleased when Trip confirmed his speculations and gave him a hefty stack of it to gift to her. 

What he had not expected was for her to use it to speak with  _ him.  _ Nor did he realize how much he would end up enjoying writing back and forth with his permanent guest. He found himself floundering when in her presence, finding it sometimes impossible to speak more than a handful of words to her. But in writing...he could speak again. He found it easier to pen his thoughts, and it gave him time to sift through and find the appropriate thing to say. 

The first note came on the third day of spring thunderstorms moving through, darkening the skies and soaking the grounds. 

_ I miss the sun. I think I am going to come out of my skin unless I find some form of entertainment.  _

_ -Darcy (obviously) _

He sat in his bed, staring blankly at the note that had appeared on his lap a moment before. He made his way to his writing table and dug out his quill and ink. 

_ You’re not very patient, are you? _

_ -James (of course) _

There. That was...gods what had he just written her? As he panicked on whether or not she would take offense to his hastily scribbled words, her handwriting started leaking across his page. 

_ I can be. So long as I have something to keep my mind occupied. Dullness and an idle brain tend to get me in trouble. What do you do to keep from going mad? -D _

Something like a smile tugged at his mouth. 

_ I’m fairly certain I’m already mad. Can’t get much worse than I am now. -J _

_ Don’t you do anything to entertain yourself? What do you spend all your time doing when you’re not at dinner with me? Or stalking me in the garden? -D _

_ I read. I write sometimes. I used to lose time, sometimes hours, inside my head. That hasn’t happened in a while now, though. Not since before your attempt to run away. -J _

_ Maybe the Wolves knocked something good loose in your head? In that case, you’re welcome. You can send me chocolates as a thank you. What do your write about? Stories? What do you read? -D _

James leaned back in his chair. So many questions, always. He licked the tip of his quill and penned his response. Slowly. So many damned questions.

_ I write down my dreams. Or possibly memories. There are a thousand fragments of what could be real and what could be fiction flung around inside my head. Sometimes it helps to make sense of them all if I can put them on paper. I read books. -J _

Her response was almost immediate and he could hear the witty acerbic tone of her voice in each syllable. 

_ Books? No, you cannot be serious. Surely you spend your time reading treatises and agricultural pamphlets. Which books do you read? I’ve read all of the ones in your library. Some more than once. Perhaps we can discuss the books we’ve both read? -D _

_ I’ve not read any of the books in the library on the main floor. I’ve only read what’s in my private library. -J _

_ PRIVATE LIBRARY?? You have been hiding sweet, precious, fresh reading resources from me? How dare you. I thought we were friends. -D _

_ I can share. If you want? -J _

She had responded to that suggestion very well and even more so to the book he left on her bed as a gift when she was down in the kitchens with Jemma the following day.

***

Writing to him on the enchanted parchment turned out to be a stroke of genius on her part. While he was still often stiff and awkward around her, unable to hold conversation very well, James was quite the gifted pen pal. He had even made her laugh on more than one occasion. The hint of dark humor that she had glimpsed in him a few times rose beautifully to the surface when he was given a pen and paper. 

And the gifts! The man had a talent for leaving her little presents on her bed while she was off wandering through the castle. Little things, often flowers, sometimes books, once a perfectly ripe and purple plum, another time a wickedly sharp knife to keep in her boot (should she come across anymore  _ wolves),  _ but all astonishingly thoughtful. 

The books were greatly appreciated with the change of the weather and the frequency with which she now found herself stuck indoors. They were also...not what she was expecting. The first book he left on her bed was, oddly enough, a book of poetry. It was quite good too. She assumed it would be brimming with war epics or heroic sagas, but the majority of them were rather romantic musings on elements of nature.

_ Poetry? About birds and flowers and the stars? Don’t misread me, they are lovely, but not exactly what I expected from you. -D _

_ I like birds. And flowers and stars. And I like poetry. It is nice to be reminded that the entirety of the world is not made up of violence and death. -J _

_ Good point. You have good taste. In poetry at least. I’ll reserve full judgement until after I’ve read a few more books from your library. -D _

_ Who said I would be sharing any other books? -J _

_ Don’t tease me, James. It is unbecoming of a gentleman. -D _

_ Darling, have I ever given you the impression that I am in any way a gentleman? -J _

Something in Darcy’s gut clenched at his response, her bare toes curling into the plush rug beneath her desk. 

_ Good point. I want more books anyway. -D _

_ As you wish. -J _

_ *** _

The next book she received was a fairy tale about two princes. She was fairly certain it was the same tale that the tapestry on her wall depicted. Darcy quite enjoyed the beginning but found the ending utterly tragic. 

“They all die? That’s the ending?” she demanded, slamming the book into his chest. She had stormed down to dinner, having just finished the book, utterly distraught that he would give her something so heart wrenching. 

“Unless it’s changed since I read it, yes, that’s the ending,” was his placid reply. 

“But...but that’s  _ awful.  _ They both just die for nothing? Where is my happy ending where the younger prince marries his warrior sweetheart and has a thousand little princelings, and the elder leads his kingdom to victory and glory??”

His fingers tightened around the book where he held it against his front. “Not all endings are happy, darling.” 

Darcy, who had the habit of becoming emotionally fragile right after finishing an absorbing book, felt near tears when she saw the look on his face. She blinked the tears back and squared her shoulders. 

“I don’t believe that. If the ending isn’t happy that just means the story isn’t really over yet,” she said firmly, then plopped dejectedly into her chair. 

Dinner was even more tense than usual that evening, as Darcy did not have it in her to rise above the sinking feeling in her gut. 

“I’m sorry.”

Darcy glanced up from her empty plate to see James looking back at her, shoulders slumped and looking exactly like a kicked puppy. Darcy sighed and rubbed her hand across her forehead. Of course he would be hurt by her reaction. His emotions could be even more capricious than her own at times. It often felt like he had the emotional maturity of a toddler, complete with the overwhelming desire to please others. 

“Don’t be sorry, James. It was a lovely book, if heartbreaking. Don’t mind me, I just get like this sometimes after a good book is finished.” 

“So you’d still like another from me?”

“Absolutely.”

***

The next book he left for her was significantly less distressing, as it was a handbook on a variety of wild and domesticated flowers. It included lovely illustrations paired with the proper care and a variety of uses for each one. It was pretty and informative, though a bit dull for her tastes. She did, however, find the section on the language of flowers to be quite enlightening and incredibly sweet in retrospect. 

_ More flowers? -D _

_ Told you I liked them. -J _

_ Explains why you threw such a fit when Jane tried to steal one. -D _

_ Yes well, I wasn’t exactly in my right mind. -J _

_ Are you in your right mind now? It seems like you’re...better. Even at dinner or when we are together you seem less...scattered. -D _

Sometimes she felt ridiculous writing back and forth with a man who was literally in the same residence as her, but questions like these were easier to ask on paper than they were in person. She didn’t always know how to delicately broach the more sensitive topics when seated at dinner. 

_ I think so. I still have so much missing in my memories. So many questions with little to no answers. But I feel more settled, more like a man and less like an animal. -J _

_ Good. -D _

Trip had given her the biggest smile when she had pressed the bouquet of yellow roses she’d picked into his hands, but he kept his comments to himself and delivered her gift to James as requested. James’ eyes had been bright with something new when she met him at dinner later that evening. 

***

The fourth book she received was another book of poetry, though this all appeared to be from a single, unnamed poet and appeared to be handbound. Each poem had an exquisitely rendered drawing to accompany it, presumably by the person who’d bound the book if the inscription was anything to go by. 

“A gift to you, brother. Your words were too damned pretty not to be paired with a picture. You’re welcome. -S”

She was struck with amusement at the display of obvious sibling affection. Darcy recognized the characteristic tenderness paired with antagonism that was present in her relationship with Jane. Darcy wondered exactly who had made this book, though she doubted she would ever find the answer. Certainly not from her companion. 

The poetry itself was indeed very beautiful, with an earthiness and a gentleness that soothed aches within her that she wasn’t even aware she had. It was by no means the most flowery thing she had ever read, but it had a quality that sang to something inside her.

“What is it?”

Darcy looked up from the book with a distracted hum. She and James were seated together on one of the sunny window seats in the main library, enjoying a peaceful afternoon together. She had her back propped against the wall, sitting perpendicular to James with her legs outstretched and crossed ankles resting atop his thighs. 

“What is it?” he prompted. “Your heart started beating much faster just now, I was wondering what you’d read to react like that.”

“Oh.” Darcy pinched her lips together, a blush spreading high on her cheeks. “Um, this particular poem is a bit more...evocative than the rest.”

“Oh? Which one? Will you read it to me?” Only a fool would have fallen for the innocence in his voice. 

“Absolutely not!” she reproached him, flinging out her hand to smack at the shoulder nearest her and then crossing her arms over her chest. She aimed her best school marm glare at him. Then something rather remarkable happened. James leaned his head back against the glass and a rumble of laughter shook its way out of his chest. Darcy’s eyes widened, a warm sensation flooding her as she watched this usually somber man completely dissolve into laughter. Not for the first time, she wished she could see his face, though this time the desire pierced her more poignantly than usual. 

She shook herself as his giggles died down and playfully shoved at his shoulder before returning to her book. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“If it’s to read you another naughty poem, then the answer is no,” she replied without looking up. 

“No...it’s not that.”

Something in his voice made her look up at him. She tilted her head to the side in a gesture for him to continue. 

“Are we friends? Now? Truly?”

Darcy considered this for a moment before nodding. “Yes. I believe so. New friends, but friends all the same.” 

James nodded, mostly to himself, and then was silent. Darcy had enough experience with him to now recognize when he was thinking very hard about something he wanted to say but was unsure how to go about it. She’d learned that patience was a virtue in these instances. 

She counted three slow, steady breaths before he finally spoke up. 

“Is that why you touch me so much? Because we are friends now? Is that...I don’t have any memories of friendship so I am unsure of...is that what friends do?”

That was not the direction she was expecting him to take. “Um, not all friends. It depends on personal preference, I suppose. I happen to be, generally speaking, a very tactile person, so I tend to…” She glanced down to where she had carelessly thrown her feet into his lap and self consciously drew them away. She hadn’t even thought about how liberal she had been with her physical affection over the last two months of their growing friendship. With dawning horror, she realized that he had always been careful not to touch her in return. Ever. “I apologize if I’ve made you uncomfortable. I promise you it was not my intent to overstep my bounds-” 

“No, it’s not that,” he said firmly, interrupting the beginnings of her babbling. He swallowed hard. “I, um, when you first came here, the second night, you told me that I was never to touch you again. I was wondering...if we are friends...does that edict still stand?”

Darcy’s mouth popped open in little ‘o’ of surprise. “Oh, um, I suppose not. Since we are friends, you may be affectionate with me.” She shared a shy smile with him, feeling a bit foolish but a bit benevolent as well. Gingerly, she replaced her feet in his lap. He glanced at her and then down to his lap before slowly lowering his flesh hand to grasp lightly at her ankle. He looked up at her again, searching for reassurance, so she nodded and flashed him an indulgent smile. His thumb began rubbing light circles on the thin skin of her ankle bones, sending a prickling wave of nerves up her spine. 

Suddenly, his grip on her ankle tightened and with a jerk, he had pulled her across the bench and nearly onto his lap. She yelped and would have toppled backwards if his metal arm had not swept behind to catch her. He released her ankle only to place his warm hand against the side of her neck. She froze, unsure of where his head was at. James had a distant look, as if he was disconnected from the context of the moment and his sole focus was on the give of her skin beneath his hand. He stroked down the side of her neck, ghosting his hand over her shoulder and along her arm, his eyes following his movements. When he reached her hand, he flipped it over to trace the pale blue veins in her wrist. His fingers tickled across her palm and she shivered against him. 

“Um, James,” she said weakly, finally recovering her voice. “Perhaps I should have instituted some boundaries to the touching.” 

His head snapped up at her words and his fingers stilled against her. “This is wrong, isn’t it? I’m doing this wrong.” Shame curled along the edges of the words.

“It’s...it’s not wrong  _ per se,”  _ she said gently. “Just, perhaps, perhaps a bit more  _ intense _ than what I was expecting.” 

“Oh.” He released his hold on her, scooting himself as far from her as the seat would allow. 

She didn’t let him stay that far away. Without a word, Darcy followed him across the bench and sat beside him, leaving a good inch between their thighs. She retrieved her book from where it had landed on the floor a moment ago and opened it on her lap and began to read a few lines. Then, without ceremony, she plopped her hand onto his thigh closest to her, palm up in invitation. She read a few more lines before she felt the first graze of his fingertips against her skin. 

And she smiled. 

***

The fifth book was not so much a book as it was a manuscript. And one she recognized. 

_ James, where are you? -D _

_ My room. -J _

_ Stay there. I’m coming up. -D _

_ You’re very presumptuous. -J _

_ Put on pants. -D _

_ Fine. See you soon. -J _

She didn’t respond, tucking the manuscript under her arm and rushing off to his tower. She burst through his door without even knocking but thankfully he had heeded her command. Well, partially. He was shirtless, but he had indeed put on a pair of black linen breeches. 

“Where did you get this?” she demanded, holding the manuscript up in front of his nose. His head jerked back slightly so his eyes could focus on the title. Recognition and pleasure sparked in his eyes. 

“Did you finish it already? Did you like it? Isn’t it incredible? Can you believe how brilliant the author is? His theories on the stars and their movements is pure genius!”

Darcy blinked at the enthusiasm in his voice. It was an eager tone that she’d not heard from him before. It was utterly charming but she had more pressing concerns. 

“Oh yes, I am completely aware just how  _ brilliant _ the author is because  _ Jane  _ wrote this.” She let that revelation hang in the air between them. 

“Jane?  _ Jane,  _ Jane? Your Jane?” he asked, incredulous. 

“The very same.”

“Are you sure?”

Darcy rolled her eyes. “Absolutely. I spent many nights proofreading this. Now, I will ask you again,  _ where  _ did you get this?”

James blinked rapidly and then gestured weakly with one hand towards a heavy wooden cabinet that sat beside his bed. The doors had been left open and she could see stacks and stacks of books within. “My library...I...sometimes new books will appear.” He paused, eyes going distant. “I think...I may have been dreaming, but I think I have seen a woman, a fairy, put things in my library before…”

“Was it one of the staff?”

“No, no it’s not anyone that lives here, if she is even real in the first place. Something about her...she seems familiar.” He shook himself once and his eyes refocused on her face. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how that got here or who…” He shrugged. 

Darcy looked down at the manuscript in her hands, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth. “Oh well,” she sighed. “I shall just add it to the pile of oddities and fairy shenanigans that surround this place.” She looked at him shrewdly. “So, you were able to follow this? And enjoyed it?”

Some of that gleaming eagerness reentered his gaze. “Yes! Jane is a genius. Her postulation that the stars could actually be other suns to other  _ worlds  _ is just...just…” His gaze grew a bit starry as he trailed off, lost in his own thoughts. 

Darcy cocked a brow and cleared her throat, interrupting his musings. “Well I am pleased that I’m not the only one who appreciates Jane’s genius.” 

He nodded and then paused, his eyes widening in horror. “Damn it!” 

“What? What is it?” Darcy asked in alarm. 

“I kept the wrong sister!” His flesh hand came up to press melodramatically at his breastbone. 

Darcy narrowed her eyes at James and shoved hard at his chest. “You ass, I thought something was actually wrong.” She turned on her heel to storm off but he caught her by the wrist. He deftly spun her until she was suddenly quite close and tucked into his side. 

“Come on, Darcy. You’ve read more of her work than I have. Can you blame me for admiring that kind of talent?” he teased. 

She sniffed haughtily, turning up her nose and ignoring the warmth of his chest against her side. “I have talents too, I’ll have you know.” 

“Oh? And what would those be?” The timbre of his voice dropped to something that simmered and drew her eyes to his. It appeared the rake had returned and he was standing so very very close. 

Darcy swallowed around the sudden tightness in her throat. “Music. I, um, I can play any instrument, and craft them. I can write music. Uh. And, I can...sing. Very well.” 

His warm eyes brightened, the edges crinkling slightly. “I knew about the singing. You sing to yourself when you’re alone. I used to follow you around the castle so I could listen. And watch you.” 

“That’s unsettling,” she replied breathlessly. 

He hummed in agreement, a low rumbled note in his chest. “I have that effect.” His eyes dropped to her mouth and he was suddenly too close for comfort. 

She backed out from his side, shaking the light grip he still kept on her wrist, a tight smile on her face. “Yes, well, you’ve gotten a bit better about not following me around in the shadows and actually joining me on my jaunts around the castle, which I do appreciate. Um, anyway, I promised Daisy we’d go for a ride this morning...so, um, goodbye.” Her pride told her that she wasn’t outright fleeing, just being time efficient. In either case, she was gone before she could see the light leave his eyes and his shoulders slump in defeat.

***

James cleared his throat and addressed the sandy-haired man who was carefully molding colored glass with his bare hands, shaping it to fit the broken window he stood in front of. At the sound, the man glanced over his shoulder and then did a double take when he recognized who was interrupting him. He immediately turned to face James. 

“Sir? Did you need something?”

“Can you build me something? A musical instrument?”

Fitz’s eyes widened and his mouth popped open. “Uh, yes. Several, in fact. What did you have in mind?” 

***

Three weeks after discovering James’ academic crush on Jane, Darcy found a note on her bed requesting her presence in one of the mid-sized drawing rooms on the third floor. When she walked through the ornate double doors, she found what had once been a drawing room had now been converted to a music room, including a variety of magnificently crafted stringed instruments.

She gave a soft gasp and ventured closer to a gilt harp that stood as tall as she did. She had never seen anything so lovely in all her life. She reached out and brushed her fingertips along the strings. They responded to her touch effortlessly, releasing sweet, clear notes that made her weak in the knees to hear. She made her way around the room, stroking each new piece with reverence. When she had made a full circle of the brightly lit room, movement from the doorway drew her attention. 

James stood leaning against the door, watching her with wary eyes. She was surprised to find him dressed in lighter colors today, instead of his usual somber attire. His legs were wrapped in chocolate colored leather breeches and his upper half was hidden beneath a white shirt and caramel colored jacket. 

“Is all this for me? Did you do this for me?”

James shifted against the door and dropped his eyes to his boots. “Fitz built them.”

“But you requested it?” she pressed. 

He nodded. “I did. Yes.” He finally raised his gaze back to hers. “I wanted to see if you actually possessed any talent or if that was all talk.” 

Darcy bit down on the delighted smile that pulled at her lips. She quirked a brow at his challenge and seated herself at the harp with pompous flare. She plucked a few exploratory notes, but the thing was perfectly tuned. She drew a slow, deep breath and then began to play on the exhale. She started with an old tune that most people would recognize, then followed it with a slower piece that was often played during moments of celebration, weddings and births and such. By that time she had settled into the trancelike state of pure focus and joy that overwhelmed her when she was allowed to lose herself in music. It seemed that her fingers moved of their own volition, transitioning to a new piece, something she’d never played nor heard before. It made her think of sunlight glinting off golden hair, gentle artist’s hands roughened by the calluses of war, of boyish laughter, of joy and peace. 

The tone of her music shifted. Now it spoke of the sheen of chestnut locks looking black by moonlight, the steady bearing of a man burdened by duty, of honor, of patience, of a gentle heart roughened by the calluses of war, of tenderness and heartache. 

The music drew to a close, ending on a melancholy note. When she looked up, she was alarmed to see tears streaming from James’ eyes and trickling over the black leather of his mask. 

“James? What’s wrong?” she asked, rising from her seat to join him at the door. His eyes gazed past her or through her, his mind lost somewhere far away. Darcy chewed at her lip for a moment before deciding to reach up with both hands to cup his face. Her thumbs brushed the dampness from the delicate skin beneath his eyes. His lids fluttered closed in response to the touch and when they reopened, she could see that he was back with her. 

“Sorry,” he said roughly. “It...you play beautifully. And I...saw, I think I remembered something. Someone. I-” He drew away from her abruptly, fleeing out the door and down the hall before she could call out to him. 

She didn’t see him again until dinner that evening. He was silent and brooding, watching her every move with those clear blue eyes. She attempted to draw him into conversation but could only get a grunt here and there in response. 

Finally, she tossed her fork down with a clatter and stood from her seat at the opposite end of the table and instead took a seat right next to him. He watched her in bewilderment, the first real emotion she’d gotten out of him since arriving to dinner. 

“Talk to me, James. Did I offend you in someway this morning? I promise you, I did not mean to upset you. And I cannot tell you how much I loved your gift. Please? Tell me what’s wrong?” She placed her hand over his where it rested on the table. 

His eyes flicked down, watching the way she drew circles across the back of his hand. “Nothing is wrong,” he sighed. “Listening to you play...it shook something loose inside my head, a memory or a dream and...I feel a little more jumbled up at the moment.” He shrugged helplessly, not meeting her eyes. 

“Oh, I’m sorry I-”

“Don’t be,” he rushed, turning his hand in hers to clasp her fingers. “It isn’t your fault. I apologize for my poor manners. I’m afraid I haven’t been very good dinner company. Again,” he said with a self-deprecating chuckle. 

Darcy smiled tenderly at him, pleased that he was responding to her. “That’s alright. It made me a little nostalgic for those early days when you would stare unblinkingly at me for an hour every night,” she teased, fluttering her lashes at him. 

James groaned and dropped his forehead into his metal palm. “Please,  _ please,  _ don’t remind me of that.” 

Darcy grinned in wicked delight. “Oh, now that I know it’s a sensitive subject I am most definitely going to remind you of it.” 

James groaned again, even louder this time. “It’s not my fault!” he whined. “Trip told me I needed to maintain eye contact with a lady if I wanted...I wanted to…”

Darcy cocked a brow. “If you wanted to what, exactly?” 

“Um. Nothing,” he said curtly with a flush of pink rising up his throat. 

“Mhm,” she hummed. “Sure. Eye contact I understand, but you wouldn’t even blink when I looked away. You would just sit there. Watching me.” 

If anything, his blush darkened. Darcy peered at him with heightened interest as he cleared his throat and squirmed in his seat. “Um, that was...well, I just…”

“Come on, man, spit it out.”

“I like watching you eat,” he burst out in a strained rush. 

Darcy leaned back in her chair, brows up to her hairline. “Excuse me?”

James sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. “I can’t eat, can’t taste, but gods be damned I can smell how delicious everything is and I feel hunger but  _ I can’t eat. _ But watching you...the way you eat…”

Darcy straightened and crossed her arms over her chest. “And how exactly do I eat, hmm?” Her tone held a warning. 

He lifted his hands in a placating gesture. “I mean no offense. I just mean that I have never seen someone eat with such an easy, unconscious joy. You delight in every bite, every morsel. You don’t just mindlessly shovel down sustenance. You savor everything, slowly, completely. Watching you...it’s almost...it’s almost like I can taste again.” He blushed even harder, his shoulders bunching up self consciously. 

“Oh,” she whispered. It was such an odd thing for him to say, uncomfortable even, but it was also terribly sad, in a way, to be so completely cut off from such a simple, human joy. “What do you miss the most?” she asked suddenly. His brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you miss eating the most?” she clarified, gesturing at the table. 

His eyes followed her hand and then swept over the table, catching on several different platters and bowls. He rose from his seat and walked around her to about midway down the table to gingerly pluck a plum from a bowl of fruit. He strode back to stand at her side, holding out the plum in his palm. Darcy glanced at him and then retrieved it from his hand with a shrug before lifting the fruit to her mouth. She bit into the soft flesh, closing her eyes as the burst of sweet flavor rolled over her tongue. When she opened her eyes, he was watching her intensely, every ounce of his attention drawn to her mouth. She took another bite. A bead of sweet juice rolled down her chin. Before it could travel further, James reached out to catch it with his thumb.

He slowly dragged the digit back up her chin and over her lower lip, pushing the sweetness back into her mouth. Time slowed, the moment stretched like a wire, tension singing through each passing second. Darcy did not know what possessed her to do it, but when his eyes drew back up to meet hers, she wrapped her lips around his thumb, drawing it deeper into her mouth to swipe her tongue across its pad. 

His breath hitched at the stroke of her tongue. He shuddered and gradually withdrew his thumb from her lips, softly clasping her chin instead. “Marry me,” he whispered. 

She smiled and shook her head, gently so as not to dislodge his grip on her. He nodded and dropped his hand with a chuckle, the strange spell of the moment broken. He returned to his chair, sinking into it with a decidedly shaky sigh. Darcy hummed and bit into her plum again in an attempt to hide her self satisfied smile at his shaken demeanor. He wasn’t the only one who could play the rake it would seem. 

*** 

He was having a nightmare. 

Darcy could hear the terrible screams all the way in her bedroom loud enough that it roused her from heavy sleep. She jerked upright in her bed as another blood curdling shriek reached her ears. She chewed on her lip, unsure what to do, but wanting to help him. The screams stopped abruptly and she thought perhaps he had finally awakened from whatever nightmare had ensnared him. She waited a few moments before lighting the candle by her bed and scurrying over to her writing table. She scribbled out a quick message to him. 

_ Are you alright? -D _

His response took longer than usual and she measure the extra time with the rising tension between her shoulders blades. She sighed in relief when his scrawl began to bloom across her parchment. 

_ Yes. I apologize for waking you. -J _

_ Don’t worry about me. Nightmares? -D _

_ Yes. -J _

She could tell by the jaggedness of his handwriting that his hands were shaking. The thought pierced her heart. 

_ Can I help? -D _

_ Unless you can find me a new, unbroken mind, I don’t think you can. -J _

She chewed on her lips, debating on how she should answer. 

_ I could come keep you company? Stroke your hair and talk to you until you feel better? -D _

_ You would do that for me? -J _

_ Yes. -D _

_ Then, yes. Please. -J _

“Right,” she mumbled to herself and gathered up her dressing gown to slip over her nightgown. She pushed her feet into a pair of silk slippers and grabbed her lit candle to help guide her to his room. Of course, it was just her luck to run into half the household on her way to sneaking up to meet James. Not that she was sneaking. She had perfectly respectable reasons to be visiting his bedroom. In the middle of the night. 

Daisy did not seem nearly as convinced by Darcy’s explanation as she had hoped. 

“Mhm,” the little brunette smirked. “Just going up for a little midnight rendezvous?”

Darcy pinched the other woman’s side. “It’s not a  _ rendezvous,  _ Daisy!” she hissed. “You heard his screaming, I’m sure. I’m just going to go up and make him feel better.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure you’ll make him  _ feel _ much better,” the other woman replied with a leer. 

Darcy scoffed and rolled her eyes. “I hate you,” she said flatly. 

“No you don’t,” Daisy sing-songed and then popped a kiss onto Darcy’s cheek before sending her on her way. 

Thankfully the other staff members she ran into kept their tongues in check and she only had to face down a few skeptically raised eyebrows. Which she steadfastly ignored. 

Trip was the last of her run-ins. He had raised one brow as he passed her on the stairs up to James’ room, but kept his tongue fairly civil. 

“Now I see why he was so eager to have me clear out,” he chuckled warmly. “Go on up, girl. He’ll be happy to see you.” 

When she reached his bedroom door, she knocked gently and entered when she heard his call. She closed the door behind her with a soft scrape of wood over stone. 

“Good evening,” she murmured. 

He was sitting up in his bed, propped by several down pillows and looking lost. “Evening,” he replied. His throat sounded absolutely shredded. She made a soft chirp of distress and rushed across his floor to join him. She set her candle on his bedside table, slipped out of her shoes, and perched on the edge of the bed. 

“Do I need to call Jemma? For your throat?”

He shook his head firmly, his loose hair brushing the collar of his nightshirt. “No point. It’ll heal itself by morning.” 

“Doesn’t it hurt you, though?” 

He shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve endured worse.” Something in the shudder that rolled through him made her think he had been recently reliving that ‘worse.’

She sighed sadly, her head tilting to the side as she took in his shaken appearance. “Move over, James,” she commanded, pushing at his flesh shoulder until he’d made room for her to crawl up next to him. Very carefully, she settled herself against his side and wrapped her arm around his shoulders. He stiffened against her, before finally relaxing to melt into her, his head coming to rest on her shoulder and his face pressed into her neck. With her free hand, she began to stroke his hair back away from his face. She twirled the silky strands between her fingers, murmuring soft reassurances as she felt the first hot, wet drops of his tears land on her collarbone. Her murmurs transfigured into a soft lullabye that she had not sung in a very long time and she did not stop until long after he had fallen asleep against her. The soft, clear notes of her voice eventually dissolved into the steady breaths of slumber. 

***

Ward’s mistress was a beauty to behold at anytime, but she was especially breathtaking in her rage. Though, his preference was to not be the one to bear the brunt of that rage. He narrowly missed the vase that she launched at his head, stepping to the side a split second before it shattered against the wall behind him. 

“You are sure?” she shrieked. “You are sure you saw her in his bed?”

“Yes, Madame Hydra. Snuggled up together like puppies.” 

She released another irate scream, fisting her hands in the burgundy fabric of her gown. “That... _ trollop!”  _

Ward edged closer to his mistress. “Madame Hydra,  _ Ophelia,”  _ he wheedled, bringing his hands up to stroke her waist. “You have nothing to worry about. So what if she shares his bed? She still refuses to wed him, and without that the spell remains intact.” 

Ophelia turned her sharp gaze on him, slapping viciously at his hands.  _ “Intact?  _ Have you not yourself brought to me reports of him remembering names, people he used to know? Is spring  _ not  _ in full swing at that blasted castle?!” she demanded shrilly. 

“Well, yes-” 

“Then my spell does  _ not _ remain intact, you idiot!” she thundered, striking at his chest and sending him flying backwards into the wall. “She may not have completely broken my handiwork but she is getting to my pet and I  _ will not abide it!”  _

Ward coughed and rose to standing again, bowing his head in submission. “Yes, my lady.” 

Ophelia began pacing jerkily around the room, fuming at the little upstart who thought to undo her work. And that stupid witch whose magic kept her from being able to collect her favorite pet. She’d almost gotten him, when the trollop had run off and James had followed after her, beyond the boundaries that kept her and her magic at bay. If Ward had only noticed their departure a few moments sooner...he had paid dearly for his failure. 

She made another agitated loop around the room. She needed another way to draw him out from behind the boundaries of his castle again. She needed a way to get that little bitch away from him. 

She paused in her pacing, an idea dawning. A wicked grin bloomed over her full lips. With a wave of her hand, the gown she wore dissolved into her sturdier travelling clothes. Ward watched her with interest as she extended her hand to him. “Come along, dear,” she said sweetly, her previous rage forgotten. 

Ward, the good little soldier, took her hand immediately, clinging to her. In the next moment, she used her magic to drag them to a broad lake high in the mountains, long forgotten by mankind. She stepped to the edge of its frozen surface, slipping her glove off one hand. She crouched down, placing her palm flat against the ice and sent a pulse of her magic through the water. A slow, satisfied smile stretched her lips. 

Ward stood beside her, watching her every move. “What are we doing, my lady?” 

She gave a throaty chuckle at the confusion that passed over his face. “Oh darling,” she replied, standing to stroke a finger down his cheek. “We’re going fishing.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wanna see what Madame Hydra was wearing you can find her dress [here.](https://holdmecloseandfast.tumblr.com/post/168632217048)


	12. In Which Silk Slippers Are a Formidable Weapon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picks right up where the last chapter left off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to my beta ladyaudiophile.
> 
> There are probably two or three chapters left in this fic, so getting near the end now. The next chapter is 70% done, I just need to flesh out the last three or so scenes. Currently the last 30% is essentially the cracky version of what the final product will be and if you ask me nicely I might even post that bit separately because it's pretty ridiculous and a good laugh.

Ophelia pulled the hood of her cloak tighter around her, turning her face from the biting cold wind that swept over the lake. Not much further now. She could feel the echo of her magic reverberating off her target, a beacon calling from the depths of the frozen lake. 

_ Ah yes, here,  _ she thought. Ward, her good little lap dog, followed close behind, watching her with that idiotic look on his face. He was a handsome idiot, she’d give him that, and loyal to her as the day was long, but he had no  _ vision.  _ He lacked the ability to see more than the next move right in front of him. A good soldier, but a horrendous chess player. Nevermind that though, she didn’t need him for his brains. His body suited her needs just fine. 

Ward shot her another skeptical look before scanning his eyes out over the barren lake, looking for this threat or that.  _ Idiot.  _ She ignored him, returning her attention to the tug of her magic from far below the icy surface. She knelt in the spot where she felt the pull the strongest and removed her gloves, rubbing her hands together until sparks the ugly pale green of a fading bruise began to build between her palms. She drew her hands apart slowly, her magic stretching and popping in the space she made. The kinetic energy of her magic built and built, the sparks deepening and brightening into a sickening swirl of color, until her power reached its zenith. Her lips drew up into a grin lit by the sparks between her vibrating hands. She raised her palms high above her head until her arms were shaking under the strain and then brought them down to slam them into the ice. The ice groaned and shuttered as light pulsed in a straight beam into the murky water below. Finally, with an ominous crack, the ice split and shifted beneath them. 

Ophelia neatly sidestepped the crack and narrowly avoided falling into the opening. Ward stumbled but leapt in time to join her and avoid being plunged into the water. He shot her a perturbed look but shuttered it quickly at the sharp arch of her brow. 

From between the crevasse in the ice, far below the surface of the water, a pulsing green light began to rise, brightening with each successive throb. At last, the light split the surface of the water, cocooning the object that she had come for and bringing it to float several feet in the air. 

Ophelia gave a gentle gasp. “I had not expected…” This was better than even she had planned.

***

Darcy woke to the feeling of being delightfully warm while having her nose tickled in a most irritating manner by a faceful of hair. Her first thought was to shove Jane and her mane over to her own pillow, followed by the realization that Jane was much heavier than normal and had traded in her pointy little bird bones for joints of a much meatier nature. But of course the warm body beside her wasn’t Jane’s; it was James’ and there was no way she could move him without waking him first. 

She peeled her eyes open to find that they were laying in roughly the same positions that they had fallen asleep in, with him tucked into her side, though she now had one tremendously heavy thigh tossed atop hers. A quick glance at the windows showed the pale gray light of dawn peeking through the curtains. Darcy decided it was entirely too early to do anything but ignore her entrapment and go back to sleep. Besides, she was actually quite comfortable. It had been the better part of a year since she was last able to snuggle up to another human being. Daisy was lovely, and had become a dear friend, but cuddling with her was not quite the same. For all that she looked like a human and even acted like one most of the time, there was a certain quality of  _ otherness _ that all the fairies possessed to varying degrees. 

But James...he was undoubtedly human, if a bit meddled with by fairy magic. So for the moment, she would enjoy the small comfort of his closeness. Perhaps her craving for another human being was why she had so quickly fallen into her usual physically affectionate ways? Originally she had thought that her proposed ‘friendship’ with James would turn out to be mostly a civil acquaintance. Polite chatter, cordial greetings, and nothing more. 

She had not expected him to turn out to be so easy to like. He was changing daily, she could see it. Ever since her botched escape attempt, James had been remembering things. Not so much memories of his life before, nothing of what his purpose in being there was in the first place, and only bits and pieces of people he might have known before, but he remembered other things. He could read, write, and speak at least three languages fluently. He was well educated in various subjects from science to diplomacy to mathematics and even some in the arts. He was surprisingly witty, with a humor that held a dark edge that appealed to her own twisted sense of humor beautifully. With each passing day, with each new aspect of himself that returned, she found him easier and easier to like and counted him as a true friend. 

She closed her eyes and swept his hair away from her nose, tangling her fingers in the soft ends. This was fine. Friends did this, she assured herself. Not that she had very much experience in regards to friendship that wasn’t sourced from her family. Really, he was the first friend she had ever made that wasn’t her family or a fairy. This was fine, nothing wrong or strange about it at all. She’d done this many times with Daisy, after all. 

When she woke next she was significantly less warm and stretched out across his bed, alone. She harshly quelled the strange rush of disappointment and rolled over onto her stomach with a low groan, burying her face into a lush pillow. 

“Are you dying?”

Darcy startled at the sound of his voice but stubbornly refused to move from her comfy position buried in his bedding. “No,” she replied, though the sound was muffled into her pillow.

“You sound like you’re dying. And you look half dead.” 

That roused her. She pushed herself up off the mattress, her head swiveling until she spotted him sitting by his window, bare feet resting on top of his writing desk and a book laying open in his lap. She narrowed her eyes at him. “You take that back. I look lovely.” 

His eyes scanned over her face and hair and then down along the line of her body, taking in her sleep rumpled nightgown and dressing gown she still wore. Something in his gaze made her cheeks warm and she pulled the edges of her dressing gown closer together. 

His eyes dropped back to the book in his lap. “Nope. Half dead,” he replied with finality. 

Darcy made an indignant squawk. “If I had something hard to throw at you, you would be singing a different tune,” she grumbled before sinking back down into his bed, a petulant pout on her full lips. She was sure James had heard her but he continued to ignore her in favor of his book. A comfortable quiet settled over the bedroom so Darcy took the moment to study him. She curled up on her side, cushioning her head on her arm, and watched the steady rise and fall of his chest as he read. His simple white nightshirt pulled taut against his chest with each steady breath. The way the sunlight was slanting into the room gave his skin and hair a pleasant golden halo, including the skin of his legs where his nightshirt left him bare from the tops of his knees to his toes. 

When her eyes wandered back up to his face, she startled to find him staring back, a single brow arched high. “What are you thinking about right now?” he asked in a soft rumble.

Darcy cleared her throat and rolled over on to her back, stretching her arms and legs to their furthest. “Nothing. Just wondering where your deep seated aversion to trousers stems from.”

James huffed in disbelief. “Excuse me? I am in  _ my  _ bedroom, where a man is expected to be afforded some semblance of privacy and not required to be fully dressed. If you insist on barging in on the sanctity of a man’s private quarters, I can make no guarantees on the prevalence of trousers. And I can’t help but notice that you aren’t wearing any pants at the moment either,” he accused, gesturing at her legs where they were buried under his bedding. 

Darcy grinned and rolled back on her side to face him. “Yes, but trousers are not a necessity for me, by nature of my gender.”

“And I suppose manners are not a necessity of your gender either? Or is that just you?”

Darcy gave another squawk of displeasure to which James merely fluttered his lashes and returned his attention to his book. Darcy shot a glare at him and reached over the side of his bed to snatch up one of her slippers which she then launched at his head. Of course the thrice cursed devil caught it with ease without even looking up. James slowly turned his head until he met her triumphant gaze. Something dark but not entirely unpleasant sparked in his eyes as he drew slowly to stand. His book slid from his lap to land with an ominous thud against the floor. 

James raised the slipper and shook it slightly at her. “Woman, you would dare to assault me in the sanctity of my own bedroom?” 

Darcy swallowed and shifted back a couple inches. “Yes, well, you’ve been a right smart-mouthed bastard to me since I woke up...so you deserved it.” 

He took a steady step in her direction and she scooted back half a foot. “I have been no such thing. I’ve merely been honest with you, per your request.”

She couldn’t be sure with the mask in place, but she was fairly certain that a devilish grin graced his mouth at that moment. She opened her mouth to give whatever sharp reply her brain might supply but was cut off by a gesture from James.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a bit of a spoiled brat?”

“Jane may have made a few comments in the past along those lines,” she said with a delicate sniff and crossed her arms over her chest. 

He advanced two more steps, a definite purpose to them. He idly tapped her slipper against the palm of his flesh hand. “You do know that the best way to rectify a spoiled child is by employing liberal amounts of corporal punishment.” 

Darcy rose to her knees, shuffling back with a short gasp. “You wouldn’t  _ dare,”  _ she hissed, pointing an accusing finger at him and clutching her gown tighter to her with the other hand. 

He ambled another step closer, almost casual in his approach. “It occurs to me that the kind of woman who would be so callous as to spend a night enjoying the luxuries of a man’s bed and then attempt to brutally assault him the next morning with her damned  _ slipper _ is the kind of woman who ought to be taken over a knee and spanked with said slipper.” 

Darcy rose to her feet with a yelp and took a step back until she was standing in the middle of his thankfully enormous bed. His knees hit the edge of the bed and she could tell for certain that he was grinning beneath his mask, the telltale crinkle at the corners of his eyes giving him away. She backed up until she could grip onto the sturdy bedpost at the foot of the bed. She dropped her other hand to her hip and gathered as much bravado as she could manage. 

“Now, James, this isn’t funny. You will do no such thing.” Her voice only wobbled slightly with anticipation. “Besides, I didn’t even hit you. It was only an  _ attempted _ assault, as you said.” She nodded her head in finality, as if that settled things. 

James cocked his head to the side. “Then perhaps I shall only  _ attempt _ to give you a spanking.” 

That was the only warning she got before he launched himself onto the bed. With a sharp yelp she leaped from her position by the post and made a dash to the door, only to be cut off halfway by James, her slipper still in his hand. She back pedaled and spun to dash behind the highbacked seats in front of his hearth. Her bare feet caught on the plush pile of the rug and she nearly toppled to the ground, barely catching herself on the arm of one of the chairs. 

James was slowly circling closer, the devil, snapping her slipper against his thigh. “Why are you running, Darcy?” he teased, all faux innocence and wide blue eyes. 

“Because you’re a bloody bastard and I will not just stand here and let you beat me like a spoiled child,” she said breathlessly. 

“Dearest, I would never beat you.” His voice was suddenly soft, honest. His posture softened as well for a few still moments before shifting back to a predatory stance. “It’ll only sting a little.” He made a lunge for her and she just barely missed his outstretched hand. 

_ “Oh,  _ you are the  _ worst!”  _

“I’m aware,” he chuckled with unrestrained glee and made another lunge at her, effectively cornering her between his wardrobe and writing desk. 

Realizing she’d been caught, Darcy raised her palms up and summoned her most stern glare. “James, friends  _ do not  _ dole out spankings to one another!” 

James rocked back on his heels, seemingly considering her words, crossing his arms over his chest so that her slipper now rested against his pectoral. He hummed softly to himself before asking, “They don’t?” 

Darcy relaxed, glad to see that she was reaching him. “No. They do not,” she replied haughtily, if slightly breathless, smoothing back her frazzled curls from her flushed face. 

He hummed again. “Well, that’s a shame. I was having quite a good time.” 

“That is because you are obviously some kind of deviant,” she muttered. 

James cocked his head again, that predatory gleam returning to his eyes. “You know, I think you might be right,” he said before darting forward to ensnare her in his arms. 

Darcy shrieked and twisted in his arms until her back was to his front and his arms were banded tight across her belly. Her slipper was still gripped in one of his hands and was poking quite uncomfortably into her breast so she snatched it away from him. With as much force as she could manage with the awkward angle, she began to swat behind herself at him with her shoe, hitting whatever place she was lucky enough to land on with a sharp series of  _ thwacks.  _

“Unhand me, you ass!” 

“No, I don’t think I shall,” he replied and then had the audacity to break into a bout of boyish giggles. 

The slipper was proving to be a terribly ineffectual weapon against her foe, especially once his grip had shifted to pin her arms to her sides. And, damn him, his laughter was infectious. She bit back on the urge to join him and swung her legs up and down in the hopes of throwing him off balance and giving her a means of escape. This, too, proved ineffectual other than to send him into another peal of laughter. 

A male throat cleared from across the room and they both froze in their struggle to look for the source. Trip stood at the open door, brows raised high on his head and his mouth battling against the grin that fought for dominance. Trailing behind him was a wide-eyed Daisy who was doing absolutely nothing to disguise the look of pure delight on her face. 

Trip cleared his throat again and addressed them properly. “Am I interrupting something?” 

“Yes!” came Darcy’s indignant reply. “You are interrupting the violent and entirely uncalled for assault upon my most undeserving person.” James’ arms tightened around her and she gave a little  _ oof  _ as the breath left her lungs. 

“Should we intervene?” Trip asked, definitely losing the battle to keep his grin at bay. 

“Yes!’ Darcy yelped at the same time that James responded with a firm and cheerful, “No, thank you.” 

Darcy jerked her head to aim a glare over her shoulder at James.  _ “Put me down,”  _ she hissed, twisting sharply in his arms but to no avail. 

James bent his head, nuzzling his face into her hair. “No,” he murmured into her ear, throaty and low enough that only she could hear him. 

Daisy gave an aborted giggle and began tugging at Trip’s arm. “We’ll come back later. Much later,” she called to Darcy with a saucy wink. 

Darcy’s mouth dropped open and she called out for the fairies to wait, but they had already gone, snapping the door tightly shut behind them. 

“It seems they have left you to my mercy, my lady.”

Heat licked up Darcy’s spine as her breath shuddered out of her lungs. “I had noticed.” 

“If I release you, will you promise to behave yourself and not fling any more shoes at my head?” 

Darcy gritted her teeth and nodded sharply. James’ grip on her loosened and his hands settled gently at her waist. He pressed at the dip in her waist, encouraging her to turn and face him, and then released her to plant his fists on his hips. 

“Now, don’t you think you owe me an apology?” 

Darcy’s eyes glinted and she gave a stunted curtsy. “I am  _ so _ sorry, your majesty,” she uttered sweetly, bowing her head. 

“See, now that feels much more fitting,” he replied, a strange look in his eyes flitted past and then faded. “It appears you  _ can _ be taught manners after all.” 

Darcy flashed a sarcastic smile and stepped around him. He let her pass and just before he was out of range, she spun and brought the slipper she still gripped in one hand down hard on his rear with a resounding crack. 

He jumped and gave an alarmed shout, reaching around to snatch her back up but she had already sprinted out of the range of his hands. 

“I thought you said friends did not spank one another.” 

“That was before I saw the appeal,” she cackled wickedly and narrowly avoided another sweep of his arms. “This  _ is _ quite fun,” she said and then darted behind him to catch him across the backside again. 

He straightened to his full height, standing stock still with his arms crossed over his chest. “Who’s the deviant now, hmm?” 

More laughter bubbled up from her throat. “Me, most decidedly me,” she replied circling back in to give him another whack before twirling away again. “It’s not so fun for you now that the shoe is on the other foot, is it  _ dearest?”   _

James released a long suffering sigh. “You are an unequivocal nuisance,” he said in a monotone as she darted back in to land a series of blows from his low back to his mid thigh. Her aim was not always accurate but her intent was pure.  

He endured a few more hits that landed closer to his hips than his actual rear, before he flicked his flesh hand out and caught her by the wrist that held the offending slipper. He drew his hand up until she was almost dangling from his grip on her wrist. He moved in closer to her and she steadied herself with her free hand against his chest. 

“Are you done, you little brat?” he asked flatly. 

“For now,” she replied, a triumphant grin in place. “Are you going to threaten to spank me again?” She cocked her brow in challenge. His eyes shone brightly and she could hear the humor in his voice. Especially with him standing so close to her. 

He stared at her, eyes roving over her face before he finally replied. “No, I won’t threaten you with spankings again. though you are in desperate need of one.” He released her wrist and her full weight hit the floor. She swayed and tightened her grip on his shirt to keep from losing her balance and then straightened. 

“Thanks,” she said brightly, patting him on the chest and stepping away to retrieve her other slipper. She held onto one of his bedposts and bent halfway to slip her shoes on to her feet where they belonged. “I’m absolutely starving. I’m going to head down to the kitchen for some breakfast and some  _ polite  _ company.” 

James hummed and nodded, following her over to his bedroom door. “Suit yourself,” he replied, leaning against the edge of his open door. 

She twirled her fingers at him in goodbye as she passed. She was one step outside his door when she felt the distinct sting of a large male hand coming down hard to land on her rear. Her startled yelp echoed in the corridor and she jumped and turned on the spot. She protectively reached for her backside, rubbing at the mildly throbbing spot. 

“You said you wouldn’t do that!” she shouted in indignation. 

“I said I wouldn’t  _ threaten _ to spank you,” he replied and damn if she couldn’t hear the laughter in his voice the split second before he snapped the door shut in her face. 

***

He still couldn’t believe that she would allow him to touch her. There were days where his memories were so filled with violence that he could not rid himself of the cloying feel of blood dripping from his palms, and yet, by some bizarre luck, he was allowed to put those cursed hands on her skin. 

Darcy was sprawled out on the lawn, absorbing the warm rays of the sun and slipping in and out of a light sleep. He had her head cradled in his lap, his unworthy fingers sliding through the chestnut curls at the crown of her head. She let out a shuddering sigh when he tugged a curl into place behind her ear, grazing the pink shell of her ear with his little finger. She was so beautiful like this, the sun glinting off her soft skin, giving it a translucent quality. Threads of red and gold shone in her hair every time the gentle breeze shifted the strands. She looked like she was made of spun sugar, or perhaps something lighter, softer, as if she would melt and burst on his tongue if he could only press his mouth to her. 

He could tell by the flicking of her eyes behind her lids that she had sunk into a deeper sleep so he chanced a brush of his metal fingers over her cheek. He rarely let himself put that hand on her. It seemed a beastly thing to do, a sin against her by the very nature of the wicked appendage. But with her sleeping soundly, he could run the metal pad of his forefinger over the sun-pinked skin over her nose and cheekbones without having to hide the shame in his eyes. With this hand, he could feel the rush of her blood beneath her flesh, the infinitesimal pulsing of her heartbeat, slow and steady in sleep. 

She was so lovely that it was painful. It felt as if his lungs were seizing, his heart leaping and lurching within his chest. Tears began to gather at the corners of his eyes. 

_ “Marry me.”  _ The words slipped unbidden from his lips, a curse, a blessing, a desperate plea. 

When her eyes snapped open, his flesh hand spasmed against his thigh. He froze in place, his heart thundering faster in his chest at being caught out. He slowly pulled his metal digits away from her divine face, hoping she would not notice. Of course, as was his luck, Darcy’s sharp eyes caught the movement. Instead of slapping his hand away or skewering him with a look of abject disgust, she caught his wrist and cocked a questioning eyebrow. 

“No, thank you. Ask me again tomorrow,” she replied, a playful grin slowly spreading over her plump lips. Her blue eyes gleamed with tenderness that tugged at his chest, plucking at his heartstrings with as much grace and ease as she used at her harp. Just when he felt as if he were on the edge of sanity, her eyes fluttered closed, releasing him from their hypnotic hold. She eased his metal fingers back to her cheek, turning her face to brush the barest kiss to his palm. It was so brief James wasn’t even entirely sure that it had actually happened. 

“Keep doing what you were doing earlier,” she said, interrupting his thoughts and pressing her fingers to the back of his hand, urging him to move it. “The chill of your fingers feels positively divine in contrast to the sun.” 

James swallowed and obeyed his lady’s command. Almost immediately she loosed a content sigh and practically melted into his lap. 

From that day, he was surprised to find that her answer to his proposals had changed from a good humored ‘no’ to ‘ask me again tomorrow’ with that same strange grin in place, as if she knew something that he did not. He did not question it. James would do as she said and ask again the next day. And the next and the next and the next until she said yes. Not because he needed to, not because he was compelled by whatever magic held them both in its thrall, but because he wanted to. Because he wanted  _ her. _ He could only hope that one day she might want him as well. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! If you haven't already, come find me on [tumblr.](https://holdmecloseandfast.tumblr.com)


	13. In Vino Veritas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been sitting unfinished in my docs for many moons. Like three moons. So instead of lamenting over it any longer and just staring at the final unfinished scene and being bummed and utterly uninspired, I decided to trim off the final scene and just post what was finished. So here's this. No idea when the next chapter will be up because of zero inspiration and no time to write even if I was inspired. Thank you all so much for your patience, you're all angels.

Darcy was late for dinner. Late by several hours, in fact, which was unlike her. A year ago, he would not have questioned her tardiness, but in the last few months she spent most of her time with him and seemed to enjoy his company. But he had hardly seen her all day, not since she had eaten breakfast with him in the great glass sunroom in the east wing. Well, she had eaten. James had spent the time watching her lick honey from her fingers and fidgeting in his chair. He had been relieved when she had set aside her plate of honey and butter covered toast and excused herself to return to her rooms and write to Jane, as was her daily custom. 

Time skipped around between their realms, sometimes passing along at the same rate, sometimes lurching ahead by several days or even weeks, so Darcy found comfort in reaching out to Jane at least once a day. He assumed Jane found peace in the interaction as well as it kept their correspondence as frequent as could be managed when dealing with the capricious nature of magic. 

James glanced at the clock ticking away on the wall, the hands shifting a minuscule amount that only his enhanced eyes would notice. He decided he’d had enough of waiting for her. If she wasn’t going to show up, then he was going to find her and make sure she was just being rude and not dead and bloodied in a corridor somewhere, as would be fitting based on what he could remember of his life so far. 

She wasn’t out on the grounds or sweet talking the horses in the stable. She wasn’t in her bedroom, nor in his, rummaging through his library, as she was fond of doing. She wasn’t in the main library, or the kitchens with the fairies, who had not seen her all day either. He peeked into their dining room once more, just to make sure she had not shown up while he’d been searching for her, but no luck. 

He was pacing down the corridor when he felt a shift in the atmosphere followed shortly by the slow, aching sound of a note being drawn out on what Fitz had once informed him was a cello. He followed the somber music, the distinct bitter tang of missed chances and lost potential clinging to the back of his tongue. 

James found her at last in her music room, the cello nestled between her knees as she drew the bow expertly across the strings. Her eyes were closed and she was as lost to her playing as he was to her. His eyes closed in response to the shift of the melancholy music, the tune passing through him and making him sway in place with the power of it. His breast rose with a slow, shuddering breath. Gods, he had lost so much,  _ so much.  _ Things he could never get back. People, memories, moments, the ebb and flow of a human life, all swept away and gone forever; an angry welt etched on his heart, the only trace left behind. 

He gasped with the pain of it, everything the music was wringing out of him, and her hands instantly stilled on her instrument. He opened his eyes, meeting her gaze and drawing the first easy breath since walking into the room. 

“Hullo, James,” she called to him, a strange tilt to her head and a wistfulness clinging to the edges of her words. 

“Darcy,” he greeted with a curt nod, stepping further into the room. “I missed you at dinner.” 

“Oh, did you? You sweet thing.” She set her cello in its stand and rose from her chair. He was alarmed when she stumbled forward on unsteady legs and would have tumbled headlong onto the carpet had he not caught her by the elbows. She gave an odd chuckle that sent alarm bells off in his head. He ducked to meet her eyes and was further disturbed to see her pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed, and eyes glassy. When she had regained her balance after an unusually long amount of time, she reached up to pat his cheek, missing it and landing mostly on his neck. 

“Darcy?”

She pulled out of his grip and lurched over to a side table, picking up a mostly empty wine glass. “Sorry, darling,” she hiccuped, knocking back the remainder of her glass in one smooth gulp. She licked at the corner of her mouth, capturing a lingering drop of wine. “I decided on grapes for dinner tonight.” She swayed to the side and giggled into the back of her hand. 

“What’s wrong with you?” He could have been more courteous in his delivery but she seemed too inebriated to notice his poor manners. 

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” She flashed him a bright smile that was completely undone by the devastation in her eyes. 

“Darcy,” he said, softer and warmer and pleading. He held his arms out to her and she came to him, albeit in a graceless, stumbling manner. She gripped his hands and looked up at him, her head lolling on her neck. 

“Dance with me, James.”

“I’d rather not,” he replied, absolutely confounded by the melancholy creature swaying in his arms. He squinted down at her. “You’re drunk. Utterly and completely.”

She scowled back up at him. “I am no such thing. Maybe a little affected, but not drunk.” He almost believed her but for the way she slurred the words. He took a breath, intent to contradict her but stopped when she rolled her eyes and placed her hand over his whole face and shushed him. “Come on, James. How can you say no to a pretty girl?” She batted her lashes at him and began shuffling her feet in an approximation of a waltz, her death grip on his hands the only thing keeping her from listing to the side. He kept his boots firmly planted in place. 

“There’s no music,” he pointed out flatly. 

“Then I shall sing,” she trilled and immediately began humming notes that only made sense to her. 

He sighed, rolling his eyes. “Have you considered that I don’t know how to dance?”

Darcy made a rude noise with her mouth. “Just follow my movements,” she said as she attempted to spin herself under his arm, only to trip on her own feet and collide with his groin. 

He loosed a pained groan, biting back a cutting remark. “Darling,” he said between clenched teeth. “Perhaps it would be better if I lead.” He shook her grip on his hands and pulled them into proper dance form. How in the realms he knew what proper dance form was, he wasn’t even remotely sure. She arched an impressed brow at him and let him pull her into a traditional folk dance that was, thankfully, heavy on partnering and light on complicated steps. It allowed him to keep her close and prevent her from stumbling to the ground. Mostly. The fourth time she trampled over his feet or nearly tipped over onto the carpet, he stopped their shuffling movements. He held her at arm's length with a disapproving tilt to his brow. When she had steadied, he wrapped his arms around her waist and hauled her up against his chest. 

She responded by wrapping her arms over his shoulders and nuzzling her face into his neck, letting her legs dangle freely, her feet a solid six inches off the ground. When he was sure she was comfortable, he smoothly returned to the steps of the dance, this time unencumbered by a stumbling partner. 

He stepped in time to the somber tune she began to hum, a vocal rendition of the song she had been playing earlier on the cello. If anything, it was more heartbreaking coming from her throat. Eventually the tune faded, and his steps slowed until he was merely swaying side to side with her clinging tightly around his neck. 

In the tiniest, saddest voice he’d ever heard from her, she mumbled into the side of his throat, “Jane is having a baby.” 

His brows rose high on his forehead. “That’s usually a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Mhmm.”

“Then why do I get the feeling that you are in mourning?” He shifted his hand along her back to tug at one of her curls. 

“Because,” she answered with a prolonged sigh. “Because I’m missing it. All of it. Jane being pregnant, the babe’s birth, seeing the darling grow up, seeing Jane be a mother. And what of my children? My motherhood? They are merely a dream now. Jane and Thor’s lives are moving forward and I am forever stuck here,  _ missing it.” _

He didn’t know how to respond to that. Not that he could have, even if he wanted to. His throat seemed to be closing up over the unspoken  _ because of you _ that whispered in his head. He felt her nuzzle closer to him as she sniffled miserably into his neck. 

“I am...so sorry,” he murmured into her hair. 

Her hands shifted against him, her fingers niggling into the strands of his hair. She huffed out a resigned sigh. “Don’t be. This is why I’ve kept away from you today. I knew you would only blame yourself.”

“Because it  _ is _ my fault.”

She tugged sharply at his hair and shushed him. “I’m too drunk to argue with you properly about this. Just know that  _ I _ do not blame you.” She smoothed her hand in apology over the section of scalp that she had abused. 

“I thought you said you weren’t drunk?”

She hesitated and then answered, “I may have slightly miscalculated my level of inebriation.” 

He chuckled softly and shifted his hold on her until she was securely bundled up in his arms in the traditional bridal carry. The irony of the hold was not lost on him, stabbing rather painfully at his heart. “Come on, little songbird,” he murmured as he carried her out of the room. 

Darcy turned her face into his chest. “Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you to bed. To  _ your _ bed--to sleep,” he added hastily when she cracked an eye and arched her brow. “You need to sleep this off,” he finished sternly. 

Darcy’s eyes slid shut again and she hummed her approval. “I’d rather you take me to your room. Your bed is softer, I think. Your pillows are definitely superior.”

“Yes, well, I’m not carrying you up that many flights of stairs. You are inexplicably heavy, despite your size. It’s like lugging around a sack of rocks.”

Darcy smacked his chest with the back of her hand. “Liar,” she slurred, not even opening her eyes. 

He chuckled and hoisted her up closer to his chest. “Probably all those rocks in your head,” he mumbled into her hair. 

He received a second smack, this time accompanied by a garbled, “You ass.”

Darcy dozed in his arms, her head flopping back on his shoulder and emitting a series of quiet snores. She roused when he jostled her in his effort to get her bedroom door open. “That was fast,” she murmured. 

“Yes, because you slept through the journey,” he replied before tossing her unceremoniously onto her mattress. “I assure you, it was a tortuous journey. My back shall never be the same.” He rubbed at his lower back, pulling a pained expression. Darcy held up two fingers in a rather lewd suggestion before flopping back on her bed with a groan. 

James reached for her boots, untying the laces and pulling them from her feet. She stretched her feet and toes, giggling when he ran his finger down the pad of her foot. He stacked her boots neatly at the foot of her bed and headed to her wardrobe. 

“Where do you keep your night clothes?” he asked, throwing open the wardrobe doors and immediately intimidated by the sheer volume of clothing packed into such a small space. Must be magic, he thought. Nothing defied the laws of nature quite like magic. 

“Bottom right drawer,” Darcy called to him from the bed. He located the drawer she’d indicated, pulling it out and finding rows of neatly folded white linen gowns. They were fairly simple and all exquisitely soft against his hand. He chose one at random, gathering the fabric carefully and bringing it over to where Darcy was still flat on her back and staring at the canopy of her bed. 

“You doing alright there, songbird?” he asked, pressing her gown into her hands. 

“Perfect,” she chirped and then sat up abruptly. “Damn,” she muttered, her hand flying to her forehead. “It’s getting a bit spinny in here.”

James reached out to steady her shoulder while she waited for the world to stop spinning. She patted his hand and rose on unsteady legs, gripping his upper arm in an attempt to stay upright. She swung and collided into his chest, giggling and patting him in apology. She held her gown up under his nose. 

“Help me?” she plead with him, sticking out her bottom lip in a childish pout. 

James rolled his eyes and stared off into the distance before sighing and nodding. “Hold on to my shoulders,” he muttered and then began pulling at the ties of her tunic at the base of her throat until he had the garment loosened enough that he would be able to slip it over her head. He pulled the fabric up to her waist and then guided her back to sit on her bed. 

“No peeking, Soldier,” she said sternly before dissolving into a spurt of giggles. “Eyes front,” she added around her laughter. 

James narrowed his eyes at her and then picked a spot on the wall across from him, about two feet above her head, and determinedly held his gaze there as he pulled her tunic over her head. It was a bit like undressing a large, floppy infant. But with more giggling and less compliance. He really didn’t deserve this nuisance of a woman. Hadn’t he suffered enough? He crossed his arms and turned around to give her further privacy while she pulled the gown on. 

He listened to her curse quietly for a solid minute before he saw the garment jutting out in her hand near his hip. 

“I can’t get the damned buttons undone. There are entirely too many. Raina has some kind of affinity for making clothing with more fastenings than is reasonable,” she whined behind him. 

He dutifully undid the buttons before tossing the gown back behind him. There really weren’t all that many buttons but he was not going to argue with the half naked drunk woman. There were a series of quiet grunts, whines, and huffs before Darcy announced that she was as decent as she was going to get on her own so he might as well turn around and help her. He obeyed, turning on his heel only to find half the buttons down her front were either undone or mismatched entirely. 

“You’re hopeless,” he told her and then began to right her buttons. She merely shrugged, causing her gown to gap forward and flashing more flesh than was proper. He quickly darted his eyes up to the canopy of her bed. 

“My hero,” she teased him, reaching up to clasp her hands around his. He crossly swatted her hands away and returned to finishing her buttons. Perhaps she had been right about Raina’s fastenings afterall. When he had her gown done up properly, he let his eyes fall back to her face. She was looking up at him with a queer look, her eyes posing a question in their liquid depths. He had no answers, so he ignored it and plucked playfully at one of her curls. 

“Alright, to bed with you, wench,” he commanded, pulling back the covers on her bed. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she replied and rolled over to crawl loose-limbed up to the head of the bed. She paused and looked down at her legs. “What about my trousers?”

“They look soft enough, just sleep in them.”

She gasped, looking as if he had insulted the integrity of her grandmother. “I will do no such thing! Sleeping in trousers is unbearable. They get twisted all around my legs and pinch uncomfortably and life is too short to endure pinching in unmentionable places.” She flopped onto her back and gracelessly hiked her gown up to her waist. Her fingers began to work at the ties of her breeches with little success. 

James clicked his tongue and pushed her hands away, undoing the ties for her and turning his back so she could shuffle out of her pants. When he heard the material slip to the floor and the rustle of her climbing in between her covers, he turned back around. She was flopped on her belly, face down in her pillow, already half way to sleep. He chuckled softly and made his way around the room, snuffing out the lights and banking the fire before returning to her bedside. He pulled her coverlet up to her ears, tucking it in slightly around her shoulders. He swiveled to blow out the candle on her bedside table, the only light left in the room, when he was stopped by a small hand gripping his wrist. 

Darcy was watching him with warm eyes that reflected the flicker of the candlelight. “Stay,” she asked on a sigh, and then shuffled back to make room for him. He stilled, unsure of what to do, until she said his name. The way she said it, tender and reverent, he knew he could never say no to her should she ever speak his name that way. He sighed and nodded, stepping out of his boots. He removed his belt, wrapping it around his boots that he tucked under the edge of the bed and then began unfastening his breeches. He glanced up to see that Darcy was watching him, unblinking, her expression unreadable. 

He arched a brow at her. “Will you not afford me the same privacy that I gave to you, my lady?”

Her mouth quirked up into an impish grin and she shrugged one shoulder. “It is nothing I have not seen before. Or have you forgotten when I helped Jemma tend to your wounds. Out of the goodness of my own heart, I might add.” 

He planted his hands on his hips and stared her down, but her smile just grew more brazen. “Fine,” he muttered, flinging a hand in the air and turning so his back was to her. He tugged the fabric of his shirt out from his breeches, affording him as much privacy as he could manage, and then dropped his pants to his ankles, kicking them to the side. He was thankful for choosing to wear a shirt that morning that hung to just above his knees when untucked. He turned back to face her. “Happy?”

“No,” she pouted. “I didn’t see a damned thing.” 

“Good,” he admonished and bent to blow out the candle before crawling into the bed beside her. Almost immediately, she began to wind her limbs through his, sliding her body to rest against his. 

“You’re so warm,” she cooed, right before tucking her ice cold fingers into the gap of his shirt at his throat. He hissed at the contact, grumpily crossing his arms over his chest but not dislodging her hand from the collar of his shirt. 

“That’s because you are drunk and your blood is too thin to warm your extremities.”

“Lies. I’m dead sober.”

He snorted at that. 

“No, no. What if I was? What if this was all just a wicked scheme to get you into my bed?” 

He froze at the seriousness of her voice, unable to judge her face in the darkness. He breathed a sigh of relief when she snorted and broke into what were definitely drunken giggles. 

“I hope you have a splitting headache in the morning, you unbearable twit.” 

“Ah, darling, don’t be so grumpy,” she pouted, swinging her leg up over his thighs and cuddling closer. “I know you adore me, James. There’s no use denying it.” 

“I admit to nothing.” 

He felt her lips widen in a grin against his shoulder but she remained blissfully quiet. She stayed that way for several minutes and he thought perhaps she had finally fallen asleep when she shifted and drew herself up onto her elbows on his chest. Her leg slipped between his as she shifted her weight to halfway on top of him. His hands settled at her waist as surprise gripped him. 

“Darcy?” he asked, his throat tight. 

“Hmmm?”

“What...is happening?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. He felt more than saw her lower her face to his until her forehead rested against his. “I wish…” she started. “I  _ wish  _ that I could rip this awful mask off you.” He was surprised to hear a note of desperation in her voice. She shifted against him again until he could feel her lips gliding over the skin of his brow and then trailing down along his eyelids. Her kisses were quick and as desperate as her voice as she dropped them along his cheeks and the shell of his ear, her breath brushing along is skin in stuttering puffs. “Wish I could kiss you properly,” she gasped out in a half sob. Her cool fingertips traced the edges of his mask where it met his skin, as if by touch and anguished hope alone the dreadful thing would come away in her hands. 

“Darcy,  _ Darcy, _ calm down.” He cradled her face in his hands, pulling her back as gently as he could. He stroked his thumbs over her cheekbones and was alarmed to find warm wetness there. “Darcy? Why are you crying, sweetheart?” 

She gave a wet chuckle, turning her face to kiss his palm. “Because I want to taste your lips, but this damned mask…” She tugged his palms from her face and pressed forward, placing her lips over his leather covered ones again and again and again until he was dizzy with her closeness and the sweet softness of her breath fanning over his face. Her fingers tangled in his hair and he was lost to her, his heart and his soul and every inch of his skin crying out for her tender kisses. Her lips trailed along the sensitive skin of his throat and he felt all the air leave his lungs. He was overwhelmed by her as she filled all of his senses. 

With shaking hands, James gently pressed at her shoulder and rolled Darcy onto her back and followed her over. He wound his fingers in her hair, holding her in place against her pillows.  _ “Darcy,”  _ he breathed. “I don’t-I don’t understand what is happening.” 

She choked out a distressed laugh. “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I don’t know.” Her fingers curled into the collar of his shirt, twisting restlessly. 

They were both silent, the only sound made was the pounding of their own hearts in their ears and their panting breaths. James smoothed her hair back from her face, waiting for his breathing to settle. 

“I think...I think that you should sleep, songbird. You’ve had too much wine and too much sorrow today and I think it’s…”

“Oh gods, you think I’m unhinged, don’t you?” 

“I’ve thought that for quite some time now, but that’s not what I meant. I just think maybe you are not yourself at the moment and it would just be better for you to go to sleep and….reassess in the morning.” 

He felt her nodding between his palms, snuffling in an admittedly pathetic way. “Come here, Darcy,” he whispered, pulling so they were on their sides, facing one another, with her tucked tightly to his chest. “Just sleep, sweetheart.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there ya go. I'm not happy with it, but what can you do?


	14. A Call to Assemble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess the muse is back for now.

Darcy woke with the headache to end all headaches. It felt as if a red hot knife had found its way into the center of her skull. She groaned pitifully, and drew her hands up to cradle her abused head. When two large arms wound around her, she was brought hurtling back to the reality of her situation along with a score of distinct memories from the night before. 

Ah, yes. Fumbling kisses and attempts at getting an eyeful of her bedmate. Darcy released another pitiful groan, though this one had nothing to do with the state of her head. She flushed and covered her face, white hot embarrassment licking over her skin. 

James’ warm hand began to knead into the knotted muscle at her neck and shoulders, smoothing out the tension he found. She whimpered and burrowed in closer to him when he dug his thumb into a spot at the base of her skull. He mumbled something into her hair and Darcy realized that he was more asleep than awake, which came as quite the relief as she was not in any way ready to face the consequences of her actions the night before. 

The hand at her neck smoothed down the length of her spine and then slid to land on her hip. James muttered something else and shifted restlessly against her, sliding his leg up to notch between hers. Her already parched throat tightened at the feel of his bare thigh between hers. Licking her dry lips and trying not to wake him fully, she began to wiggle away from his hold. Before she could make any real progress, the hand at her hip tightened and she was being dragged back into the cradle of his embrace. 

This was absolutely hopeless, she decided. He was too strong for her to hope to resist him while he was sleeping and she wasn’t ready to wake him just yet, so she resigned herself to the quiet misery of her hangover while being cuddled up to a renowned assassin. Maybe her luck would improve and she would die from dehydration before he woke? She could only hope. 

She tried falling asleep again but the state of her head prevented her from doing anything more than a miserable doze. This left her with ample time to reflect on her actions of the night before while waiting for her bedmate to wake. 

Gods, she was a fool. He probably thought she was as well. And she couldn’t even blame the wine for her actions, not entirely, not without lying to both James and herself. She didn’t know exactly when her feelings for him had shifted from purely platonic, but shifted they had. The more himself he became, the more he appealed to her in every way. 

She had tried to deny her affections, initially subscribing them to being merely a consequence of lack of options. He was her only human companion, it would make sense that she would succumb to loneliness. Even the mangiest dog looks like a feast to a starving man. And she was starving, she eventually found, but starving for  _ him.  _ She sought his company above even Daisy’s and each passing day, the prospect of spending the rest of her days as his companion became more and more appealing. 

Which was fine. A completely normal and justifiable feeling to have for a man who had become a dear friend. What was  _ not _ justifiably friendly were the dreams she’d been having, nor her recent fixation on his hands and the sleek line of his muscular frame beneath his clothes. 

“You’re thinking so hard I can practically hear it,” came a sleep roughened voice near her ear. A shiver ran down her spine in response, both in arousal and apprehension. 

She coughed and cleared her throat. “You’re awake.”

“Mmm, somewhat. I didn’t sleep very well. Some strange woman kept ramming her rock hard head into my chest last night.”

“That’s what you get for going to bed with strange women.” 

“You may be correct, my lady,” he said softly. The hand at her hip squeezed and then patted the linen-clothed flesh there. He began to draw away, presumably to leave the bed. 

Darcy grabbed a handful of his shirt to keep him from getting too far. “Where are you going?” she demanded. 

His hand covered hers, disentangling her fingers from the fabric of his shirt. “To get you some water. And perhaps some toast, if you’re able to stomach it.”

“Oh.” She sank back into the bedding, listening to the sound of him redressing in the dark. If she had to guess, it was likely just before dawn. There was the hiss of a match lighting and then the candle at her bedside was softly illuminating the two of them. James’ eyes look tired, but as beautiful as ever, even in this dim light. “I remember,” she began, words pouring out of her mouth without permission. “What happened, what I did last night. In case you were wondering…”

James nodded and released a slow breath. “I was wondering, yes.” 

“I meant it.” There. She had said it. The words were out and there was nothing to be done about it now but face the truth. 

James gave a shaky sigh and sank back down onto the mattress, then reached out and tucked a curl behind her ear. “I was wondering about that, too. What has changed?” 

Her eyes fluttered closed at his touch and she shrugged one shoulder. “There’s just...something there that wasn’t there before between us. For me, anyway.” Darcy bit at her lower lip, finally opening her eyes. 

“For me, as well.”

“Oh?” She smiled impishly up at him, a charming blush pinking her cheeks and nose. 

James dropped his gaze to his lap where his hands twisted together anxiously. He nodded and cleared his throat before answering. “Yes. For quite some time now.”

Darcy made a soft noise in the back of her throat, a pleased purr, and then gripped his shirt and pulled him down on top of her. His body settled on her with a heaviness that pressed her down into the mattress and made it slightly difficult to breathe. Despite this, she did not think she had ever been so physically content in her life. In the dim light she could see him peering at her, his nose inches from hers. A somberness settled over them as a perfect moment for a first kiss was yearned and then mourned for. Such a dreadful curse, that mask. 

“You are so lovely, Darcy,” James whispered tenderly, his thumb brushing hypnotically back and forth over her bottom lip. “You should marry me. If it’s little ones you want...I could give them to you,” he said haltingly. “I’d give you anything so long as it brought you joy.”

“Babies? Heavens, you certainly know how to sweeten a deal,” she teased. “Consider me sold. Where do I sign up?”

She was unsurprised to see James roll his eyes at her deflection. “I don’t know. I’m new at this,” he flatly replied. 

“Well, damn. I suppose we should just snuggle together and not speak of marriage and  _ babies  _ for the moment.” 

James chuckled and tucked his face into her shoulder, snaking his arms underneath her and settling himself over her like an overly heavy and strangely lumpy blanket. He lay there comfortably until her stomach gave a horrendous growl. He rose up on his forearms with a curse and a muttered apology. “I’ll be right back with your refreshments,” he assured her and then rolled from the bed. 

He collected the candle that he’d set down on her bedside table, but paused when the flames light flickered and caught at the fresh vase of roses that had been replaced while they slept. An odd gleam filled his eyes and his flesh hand plucked out one of the roses. He rolled the stem slowly between his thumb and forefinger, completely transfixed. 

“What is it?” Darcy asked. 

James shook himself from his stupor and turned back towards her. “Nothing, it’s just...this is the exact variety of rose that I caught your sister stealing. The one that started everything...that bound you to me.” 

Darcy sat up and beckoned him closer. “How can you tell? There are many red roses in your garden and Bobbi has assured me that they are not all the exact same, but for the life of me I cannot tell the difference.”

“The color is purer on this one, the red is a bright ruby at the edges but dark as heart’s blood at the center. The petals have jagged edges. And the scent is unique.”

Darcy squinted, peering intently and nodding along as he pointed out these supposed variances. She leaned forward to delicately sniff at the blossom. She hummed thoughtfully and then impishly replied, “Nope. Absolutely identical to every other red rose in that damned garden.”

With a twitch of his wrist, James swatted her on the tip of her nose in admonishment. Darcy gasped and rubbed at the abused spot indignantly. “You beast! How could you be so cruel as to abuse my pretty nose.”

“I barely touched you, you ninny.”

“Yes, but I’m in a very delicate condition at the moment,” she sulked.

James’ brows rose high on his head. “Who’s the father?”

Darcy’s mouth popped open and then closed tightly, her lips forming a thin line. “Not  _ that  _ kind of delicate,” she ground out. “The hungover kind of delicate.”

He tapped her on the nose again. “Well then you should be more careful with your indulgences, my darling.” 

“And you should-” she began and then gave a rather colorful description of what he could do with certain aspects of his own anatomy. 

James blinked at her slowly. “I see that I have angered you, my lady,” he said solemnly, giving an abbreviated bow. “How may I ever make it up to you, fair maiden?” 

Darcy rubbed at her nose once more. “I’d ask you to kiss it and make it better but…” she trailed off with a forlorn shrug of one shoulder. 

James grew serious for a moment, stepping closer to her. “I would, if I could,” he said lowly. He slid the petals of the rose down the length of her nose. “Here...and here.” He swept it over her cheeks and forehead, along her jaw. “And here,” he whispered, letting the softness of the petals settle across her equally soft lips. Darcy’s eyes fluttered closed at the gentle sensation, savoring it and craving more. 

Her eyes fluttered open, the hint of mischief twinkling in the blue depths of her eyes. “Oh? What about a bit lower?”

James drew a scandalized breath, his eyes widening. “Darcy! No, you absolute heathen. We are unwed!”

Darcy cackled and waved her hand through the air. “Details, details. Are you ever going to fetch me my refreshments?”

“As you wish,” he replied with another bow, this time extending the rose out for her to take. Darcy watched the silhouette of his broad shoulders as he left the room before she sank back into the pillows with a contented sigh. She drew the rose back to her nose, breathing deeply and fighting back a grin.

***

He was in luck when he reached the kitchens. The fire had been banked for the night but there was still a nice pile of coals. The embers gave off plenty of heat to make something as simple as toast. James fumbled around in the cupboards, searching for the bread box. 

_ “For someone who can spot a stag hiding in the forest from six hundred paces, you really are shit at finding inanimate objects,” the boy says. He is weak, too small for his age, with a squareness to his jaw that usually indicates trouble.  _

_ “Shut up, Stevie.” _

“Who are you talking to?”

Bucky startled at the appearance of Tripp in the kitchen entryway. He shook his head, clearing away ghosts of things he couldn’t quite remember. “Nobody. Myself, I guess.” 

Tripp eyed him but didn’t press further. “You look like you’re trying to find something. Anything I can help you with?” 

James nodded. “Yeah, trying to track down some fresh bread and butter for Darcy.”

“Oh? At four in the morning?” Tripp asked, with too much interest for James’ comfort. 

He narrowed his eyes at the other man but otherwise ignored the comment. Tripp heaved a long-suffering sigh and left his position in the doorway to dig out a fresh loaf of bread for James. Between the two of them, James had a tray stacked with buttered toast, berries, and a large glass of water within ten minutes. 

“So she agreed to marry you yet?”

“No. But I think I’ve got her nearly convinced to have my children...so that’s a start.”

James chuckled at Tripp’s slack jawed appearance. He nodded his head in farewell and made his way back to Darcy’s bedroom. When he got to her door he paused, balancing the tray in one arm and poised to knock on her door. A small, shaky feeling in his chest froze him place. He thought that perhaps it was hope unfurling sweetly into the space that Darcy was carving into his frozen heart. 

Feeling foolish and giddy he knocked softly on her door and called out her name. When no reply came, he called again, this time a little louder. He thought she must have fallen back asleep so he stepped into her room quietly so as not to disturb her. The darkened room was too quiet, and a buzz of fear plucked at the back of his brain. His eyes could see nearly as well in the dark as they could the light and there wasn’t a trace of Darcy in the bed where he’d left her. He called out to her again, trying to fight down the panic that was rising in him. He stood frozen, his fingers digging into the wooden edges of the tray he held, until he suddenly felt a white hot pain rending his heart in two. 

With a gasp, he dropped his tray, food and glass and cutlery crashing to the floor as he clutched at his chest. The searing pain was one he had experienced before. His mind scrabbled to the last time he’d felt it, the moment that Darcy had crossed the border of the castle grounds, but this pain far surpassed that moment. Anger and embarrassment clawed at him. 

Gods be damned he was such a  _ fool!  _ How could he ever have thought that she would ever have feelings for him? Surely it had all been a deception, a way to wear him down so she could make another escape attempt. 

Heartbroken rage swept over him like a wave, carrying him from where he stood until he was running and leaping out from her balcony down to the castle grounds fifty feet below. He landed on the ground with enough force to break a lesser man’s legs and took off at a dead run to the castle gates. 

The sun was starting to rise now, the blue black of night washing out to a dull gray. There was no sign of her at the gate, and she couldn’t have gotten that far beyond it in the short time it had taken him to cross the grounds. He should have been able to see her. The pain in his chest throbbed to life, capturing his attention once again with enough force to bring him to his knees. James caught himself with one hand, the other clutching tightly to his chest. He blinked back tears and as his vision cleared, it caught on a flash of color in the road a few feet from him. 

He crawled closer, his fingers closing around the rose he had given to Darcy such a short time ago. The dawn had leached it of its color, causing his eyes to skip over it initially where it lay in the road. Now, his eyes could see nothing else. Attached to the stem, a small scroll of parchment had been tied to it with a length of green silk ribbon. Something about the green sent alarm and dread shooting through his veins. With shaking hands, he carefully untied the scroll, his eyes darting over the words he found there several times before he could absorb the words. 

_ My sweet prince,  _

_ It’s high time we were reunited. If you wish to come see me and retrieve your pretty new toy, you may find me at your brother’s icy tomb.  _

_ Ever Yours, _

_ Ophelia _

He knew that name. Knew it the same way that a hare knows the howl of a hound. Cold terror skittered down his spine, only amplified by the smear of bright red blood he saw at the bottom of the note. He was running again, before he even realized it, and screaming for Tripp and Coulson and anyone who could help him as soon as he crossed into the main entryway of his castle. 

Within the blink of an eye, he was surrounded by various members of the castle staff. He found himself collapsing to the marble floor, hobbled by the searing pain that only increased the further away Darcy was taken. And she had surely been taken, if the note and his instinctive dread of that Ophelia woman was any indication. He gasped and garbled out an explanation to Coulson who listened intently. Fear blossomed in the other man’s eyes and his attention turned to his Lieutenant.

“May, get a message to Peggy immediately.”

“Yes sir.”  

The somber woman disappeared with a crackle of magic, only to return seconds later accompanied by an attractive brunette who exuded command. She marched briskly over to where James was curled on the floor, cradling his chest, and trying to remember how to breathe. 

She knelt in front of him, an unexpected tenderness entering her large brown eyes. “James, James? Everything is going to be alright.” She soothed a hand over his back and some of the pain that wracked his body loosened its grip on him. He sucked in a gulp of air, the easiest breath he’d taken in the last half hour. 

“Who-” he gasped, “are you?”

The woman glanced at Coulson, displeasure tugging at one corner of her mouth. “You may call me Lady Margaret. I am a friend of Coulson’s.”

James squinted at her as memory tugged at his mind. “I...I know you,” he said with a degree of wonder. “You’re the woman who brings me books.”

The woman, Margaret, flashed him a brief, but genuine smile. “Yes, that was me.” She licked her lips and met Coulson’s gaze again in a silent conversation. “I am...the one who brought you here, to this castle. I hid you away from Ophelia, left you here with my general and his squadron to care for you. Protect you.” James stared at her as awe swept over his face. A saucy glint entered the woman’s eyes. “You may thank me now,” she said pertly. 

“Thank you,” he rasped, still confused but authentic in his gratitude.

Her answering smile was brilliant. “You’re very welcome, James.” Abruptly, she rose from her position beside him and held out her hand to him. “Now, if you can stand, I suggest you do so. There is much to be done and we cannot go to war with with Ophelia with you still in your nightclothes.”

James looked down at himself, having forgotten he was still in his linen shirt and soft cotton breeches. “I suppose I should get some proper pants on,” he said as he clasped Margaret’s outstretched hand. 

She pulled him up with surprising strength. “There’s the spirit.” As soon as she was sure that James would not collapse back to the floor, she immediately began barking out orders to the assembled group of fairies. 

“Tripp, get James ready for battle.”

“Right away, ma’am,” he replied, tucking himself under James’ arm and disappearing with him. 

Margaret turned to her general. “Coulson, I need you to reach out to our allies. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

Coulson nodded his head curtly. “Anyone in particular?”

“Bruce Banner, of the Northern Troll Clans. He is a friend of mine and will come to our aide if we ask. And Darcy’s brother-in-law, Thor. You should contact him as well.”

“He is still in exile from Asgard and stripped of his powers,” he replied doubtfully. 

Margaret nodded, considering the information. “Yes...but he is still a fierce fighter, and he will fight all the harder for someone he loves. Make contact.” 

“Yes ma’am. Anyone else?”

“Yes. Natasha Romanova.”

Coulson’s brows rose high on is head. “Of the Romanova witches?”

“The very same. She owes me a favor. If she’s still living with that archer, have him come too.”

“Legolas?”

“No, not the elf. She ended things with him centuries ago. This one is human.”

“A human?” Coulson asked incredulously. 

Margaret gave a bittersweet smile. “We all have our vices.” Her smile faded and a small spark of anger burned in her dark eyes. “I need you to track down one final person while you’re at it.”

“Oh? Who would that be?”

“Stark,” she ground out. “If anyone should be in this fight, it’s him. It’s about time he took responsibility for his child.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know there is a splendid cracky version of this that I wrote in a fit of writer's block. Let me know if you'd like to see it and I will post it.


	15. 14.2 The Crack Version

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cracky version of part of chapter 14 when the writers block was bad and all I had was the crack. 
> 
> Starts after this segment:
> 
> "Darcy made a soft noise in the back of her throat, a pleased purr, and then gripped his shirt and pulled him down on top of her. His body settled on her with a heaviness that pressed her down into the mattress and made it slightly difficult to breathe. Despite this, she did not think she had ever been so physically content in her life. In the dim light she could see him peering at her, his nose inches from hers. A somberness settled over them as a perfect moment for a first kiss was yearned and then mourned for. Such a dreadful curse, that mask."

“You fine. You should marry me. I could give you those babies you want?”

 

“Oh shit. DUDe. Babies????? MOtherfuckin sold! Where do i sign up?”

 

“I don’t know. I’m new at this.”

 

“Well fuck. Let’s just snuggle some more.”

 

“Okay good idea.” ANd then they snuggle. “Oh shit, you want sum water and snacks right?”

 

“Yeah that’d be super cool.”

 

“Okay, brb.” James gets up and grabs a red rose from the vase on her nightstand and strokes it over her cheeks and lips. “If I could kiss you, this is where i’d kiss you.”

 

“Wot about a bit lower?”

 

Scandalized old man voice, “Darcy no! We are unwed you heathen.”

 

“Shit you right, go get my fucken snack. I’ll wait here with this pretty rad rose.”

 

“Alright,” he says and then leaves for the kitchens. 

 

He comes back to her room with a tray that’s got snacks and water and shit but wtf??? No Darcy??? He’s just standing there holding that tray looking like a dumbass when all of a sudden it feels like he’s been stabbed in the chest. Wtf???? He’s felt this before when Darcy crossed the border to the castle grounds, but like super duper worse than last time. Frackety frick, did that ho play him and run off again? He drops tray and leaps out the window like a mf badass and then takes off at a dead run to the gate. 

 

No sign of Darcy. 

 

“Shitballs!” Looks down, oh shit it’s the rose he left her with and tied to it is a note from MH telling him to come to his brother’s icy tomb if he wants to get his girl back. Theres a drop of blood on the letter. 

“Extra shitballs!!” He runs back inside and frantically calls for all his fairy buddies and he feels like he’s dying the further away Darcy gets. A lesser man would have passed the frick frack out. Coulson snaps his fingers and next thing you know old Pegster shows up, looking fine as hell and taking charge like a boss bitch. James is all, “Who the fuck is you? Oh wait, I seent you dropping off books in my library in the middle of the night.”

 

Peggy says, “Yep, that me. I’m the one that rescued you from MH and set you up at this sweet castle with this baller staff. You can thank me now.”

  
“Thanks.”

 

“You’re welcome. Okay, get your going to war pants on, James, we’re about to head over to MH and fuck shit up.” 

 

“Sweet, let’s do it.”

 


	16. The Final Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I'm back. This chapter....holy hell this chapter was the WORST to write. My muse was fighting me so much and it is only by the gentle (mostly) prodding of my beta ladyaudiophile that this stupid chapter is even seeing the light of day. Y'all, it is so freakin long. Sorry this took me so long, I hope it meets everyone's expectations. I apologize if you hate it. This will be the final major chapter with the next chapter being an epilogue. Hugs and kisses to you all.

Darcy woke slowly to the burn of cold. Confusion plagued her and then cleared as she remembered Ward’s deception. Fury boiled low in her belly at the betrayal, but it did nothing to ease the piercing cold that was making her entire body ache. She moved to stretch but found her limbs were bound, constricting her movements so that she was forced to remain curled on her side lying on the frozen ground. 

She cracked her eyes open, wincing against the sunlight that streamed down over her where she was laying on top of what was surely a vast frozen lake. Her overindulgences the night before were only adding to her discomfort and she barely managed to restrain a tortured whine. She peeked down to see that she was still dressed in nothing but her linen nightgown. She might as well have been naked for all the good the thin fabric was doing against the brutal ice. Darcy shivered violently and endlessly, hard enough that she feared she might vibrate out of her skin. Where her hands were bound in front of her chest, her limbs jerked involuntarily against the ropes, rubbing her wrists raw and only adding to her misery. The wind shifted, cutting cruelly through her gown and carrying the low murmur of voices to her ears. Carefully, she craned her neck to catch a glimpse of her captors, hoping to go unnoticed. 

For the moment she was successful. Ward and the woman, Madame Hydra, stood huddled together, their voices too low for Darcy to understand what they were saying. Just behind the pair, Darcy’s eyes caught on the strangest sight. A man, fair and broad and golden haired, floated several feet above the ice. He was eerily limp, looking just like a marionette that has been left hanging against a wall, lifeless without its master’s hands to guide it. She would have assumed him dead were it not for the little puffs of his breath fogging in the icy air. He was obviously a warrior of some kind. His size and the strange, outdated armor he wore was a testament to that, though she found it odd he’d wear armor that was at least a century out of fashion. 

Darcy could not fathom what part this man had to play in the drama that Madame Hydra was plotting. She did not have long to ponder this, however, as at that moment Madame Hydra finally took notice of Darcy. 

“Ah, Ward, our guest has finally woken,” the auburn haired woman purred, fixing Darcy with a cold glare that sent prickles of fear through Darcy’s veins. “So, this is the girl who thought to break my curse?” she continued and drew close to Darcy, crouching down to grasp her by the chin. Her nails, long and sharp as claws, pressed into the soft skin of her chin. She turned her face from side to side, assessing her and ultimately finding her wanting, if the way Ophelia’s lip curled in disgust was any indication. 

“You don’t look particularly enticing to me. A pathetic little halfblood who cannot even master what pitiful little magic runs in her veins.” She clucked her tongue in disappointment. “We’ll have to pretty you up if you’re going to lure James into my snare.”

Darcy, confused and glaring up at her captor, wet her cracked and bleeding lips with the tip of her tongue. “I don’t understand,” she began, her voice warped by the chattering of her teeth. “Halfblood? Magic?” The things Ophelia was saying were scrambling together in her aching brain and none of it made the slightest amount of sense. And then there was the mystery man-- what had he to do with anything? Her eyes drifted to the man again. Ophelia noticed the glance and raised her brow with a smirk, a secret hidden at the corner of her mouth. 

Darcy shook her head. There were more important concerns at the moment than the stranger. 

“Why can’t you just leave James in peace? Has he not suffered enough at your hand?” Her eyes leaked tears that ran and then froze against her cheeks. 

Ophelia gripped her chin tighter, her nails digging in with little pinpricks of pain. A slow, sinister smile of triumph drew her lips up. “Little girl, shall I tell you a story? It’s not a very happy one. At least, not for the heroes.” She paused to glance back at the man behind her, the triumphant smile softening to something reminiscent, and then her attention returned to Darcy.

In a soft, lilting voice she began, “Once upon a time, there were two princes…”

***

Unbeknownst to Darcy, a league away in a clearing sheltered by the shoulders of looming mountains, her rescuers gathered and prepared themselves for battle. Lady Margaret’s eyes scanned over the field of people, strategies and scenarios bouncing behind her sharp, brown eyes. She was pleased to see that everyone she had reached out to was there to assist--or on their way, in the case of Mr. Banner-- with the cutting exception of Anthony Stark. Her lips pursed with disappointment but she turned her mind brusquely away from him. There was no time to be wasted on errant kings with no sense of duty. 

All across the clearing the others were split off into their own groups, speaking in low, murmuring voices that carried softly through the air. Coulson’s team were planted near the middle of the clearing, discussing Ward’s disappearance and arguing over the implications of his absence. 

“There were no signs of a struggle, Fitz,” May explained for what was not the first time. “I don’t want to believe it either, but the facts stand against him.” It was clear by the shuttered, disparate expressions of the others that the majority of the group, with the exception of Fitz and Daisy, agreed with their leader. 

“No. I don’t believe that. He is our  _ friend.  _ We just don’t have all the facts!” Fitz was near tears, his eyes red rimmed with anger and desperation. Daisy nodded in fervent agreement, but the others only met him with pity in their eyes. Fitz turned his gaze to Jemma, seeking her support with unspoken need. 

Jemma smiled wanly and held his hand between both of hers. “I’m sure everything will sort itself out soon.” Fitz nodded and turned his attention back to the group, reassured by her words. He did not see the way her face fell when he looked away. 

Raina stood off to one side of the group, always on the periphery and never quite included. She knew the truth of the matter that the others discussed, had Seen him for the traitor he was the moment they noticed his disappearance, but she kept that information to herself. It was a moot point--they would discover the truth for themselves shortly anyway--and if they were not smart enough to ask her for the answer in the first place, then why should she deem to help them? She stood silent, her eyes glowing golden and sharpening the barbs the sprouted from the ends of her fingers. 

Near the northern end of the clearing, close to the treeline, Coulson and Lady Margaret discussed troop movements and strategies. Coulson noticed the way she held herself, a certain tension between her shoulders, a weary, pained gleam to her eyes. 

“Peggy?” he murmured, reaching out to clasp her elbow, concern and warmth in his voice and gaze. She pulled from his grasp, gently but firmly, but there was a warning in her eyes. They both knew how hard it was for her when she lost Steven on that cursed lake, but she didn’t have it in her to discuss her obvious pain at being there again. It was not the time for such things. Coulson nodded, silently accepting her need to focus on the battle ahead, and pulled a map of the area from the ether for them to pore over instead. 

Jane and Thor made their own little group apart from the others. Thor stood staring down at Jane, a fond smile pulling at his lips as she gently bound his knuckles in linen straps, her gaze as determined as if it was focused on one of her star charts. She tied off each hand, turning them palm up to further inspect her work for perfection. Thor had no need to look for perfection, as he already knew that everything his little wife touched was flawless. He shook his hands from hers, bringing them up to cup her face. Her hazel eyes gleamed with unshed tears that pierced straight to his heart. Her name slipped softly from his mouth as he dipped down to run tender lips along her cheeks and eyelids until they settled firmly against her lips. They shared gentle, aching kisses that were made all the more bittersweet by the way Thor stroked lightly at the slight swell of her belly. Between kisses, they exchanged fervent promises that both desperately hoped the other would be able to keep. 

Not far from the newlyweds, another couple stood performing their own preparatory rituals for the battle ahead, though these two were far stranger in demeanor than Jane and Thor. Natasha Romanova, she of the great Romanova witches, watched her human lover with keen, calculating eyes. Clint Barton crouched low to the earth, sharpening each of his broadheads and then dutifully handing them over to the witch. She was a sight to behold, with an eerie beauty made all the more unsettling by the fire red hair she had twisted in braids crowning her head, bits of animal bones, feathers, flowers, and arcane herbs entwined in the plaits. Red and black bracelets made of twine and glass beads ran the lengths of her forearms and her body was clad in a close fitting, jet black robe. She fit the image of a witch rather well, which made it all the more surprising that her human companion looked so, well, human. His sandy blond hair was cropped close to his head and he had a snub nose that looked just as if he’d had it broken more than once. He had charming blue eyes that sparkled quite ridiculously anytime he met his lover’s and he wore a sleeveless black tunic that was cut through with violet threading at the collar and shoulders. 

They worked silently and with each arrow handed to her, Natasha ran her hands over it in its entirety, broadhead to fletching, until the whole thing glowed blood red beneath her palms. When it had faded to its original color, she would carefully place each arrow in his quiver. They continued this ritual until each arrow had been sharpened and spelled, and then finally she placed her hands over his bow in the same manner as she had done the arrows. 

Content with her work, Natasha pulled Clint to his feet, pushing up onto her toes and burying her fingers in the short strands of his hair to lead him in a kiss. It was deeply passionate, almost violent, and when she withdrew from him there was evidence that she had bitten his lip hard enough to draw blood. She brought her thumb up to his lips and concentrated on gently rubbing the scarlet drops into his skin, mumbling under her breath all the while. Clint smirked at her, fondness and desire lighting his eyes as they began to glow as red as his lover’s hair before they faded back to their natural blue. As her focus returned to Clint, she noticed his playful smile and returned it with her own subtle smirk before leaning in to kiss him once more, this time tenderly. 

A clattering at the edge of the clearing drew the attention of most of the group in the clearing, and from a break in the trees a short, tousled looking man wandered in. He seemed unsure of himself and slightly lost until his dark eyes landed on Lady Margaret. She waved him over to join her and Coulson, who was watching the dark-haired man with some apprehension. 

“Bruce, thank you for joining us,” Lady Margaret greeted him when he was within earshot. “I was unsure whether you would be willing to be here.”

Bruce ducked his head and quirked one shoulder in a disjointed shrug. “I wasn’t sure whether I’d be here either but, I thought…” here he trailed off with another shrug, this time accompanied with a shy smile. 

_ “You  _ are Bruce Banner of the Northern Troll Clans?” Coulson asked with thinly veiled skepticism. 

Bruce flashed a self deprecating smile to the other man. “I suppose I don’t look like any troll you’ve ever seen.”

“Not really, no. You look, well, human.”

“Oh I am,” Banner confirmed. “But a foolish one that made the mistake of tinkering around with witch magic that I didn’t entirely understand. I was working on making myself into a warrior and ended up cursing myself into turning into a troll whenever I lose my temper.” His face darkened and his eyes flicked to the ground in obvious shame before returning to Coulson. “I have been living in exile with the Northern clans until I can control it and I am no longer a danger to other humans.” 

Coulson nodded slowly. He could understand self sacrifice to keep others from harm and his esteem of Banner rose significantly. “Well Mr. Banner,” he began, “now might be a really good time for you to get angry.”

With a grin, Bruce replied, “That’s my secret, sir. I’m always angry.”

Coulson responded with a soft chuckle and clapped the other man on the shoulder. Definitely a man that he could respect. 

Of all those gathered in the clearing that day, only one was left truly alone. James sat at the very edge of the clearing on the stump of a fallen tree, his head swirling with agonizing thoughts. A polished sword rested across his knees as he sharpened it obsessively with his whetstone, as if the task could somehow cut away the panic that was threatening to crawl up his throat and strangle him with each passing second. His heightened senses picked up the approach of Darcy’s family, and the tension that already lined his body pulled tighter until he could have been plucked like a bow string. From the corner of his eye, he could see them standing a few short feet from him, hand in hand and watching him intently. He did his best to ignore them, hoping they would leave him to his task and his misery. When they did not, he closed his eyes, drew a stuttering breath and then met their eyes. 

It was too much for him. The next moment he was on his feet and apologies were spilling from his lips faster than his mind could keep up with. He was fairly certain he had begun to apologize in several different languages before Darcy’s brother-in-law hushed him with a heavy hand on his shoulder. 

“Steady on, James. We are not here to condemn you,” Thor spoke in a deep, reassuring rumble. James was shocked at how quickly he calmed under the weight other man’s presence. “We have heard much of your progress from beast back to man from our Darcy, and we know from her letters that you are not the thing you once were. And that she cares for you deeply.” Thor’s voice grew soft and kind at the last admission and it made something twist in James’ chest to hear the confirmation of Darcy’s affection. 

James could see the honesty in the other man’s eyes, but when he looked to Jane, there was a wariness that lingered in her demeanor. Thor glanced at his wife and seemed to sense the same hesitancy in her. 

“Jane, speak your piece. I shall wait for you with the others,” Thor urged and then after a quick squeeze of her arm, he walked off to join Lady Margaret. 

Jane watched James with solemn eyes long enough to make his skin start to crawl with anticipation but she could not bring herself to forgive him as quickly as her husband had. She had met this man before, had seen the monster and it had terrified her to her very soul. She was having difficulty reconciling the image she held of the Soldier with the man that she knew her sister had fallen in love with. 

The moments slipped past in silence as they stared at each other until the quiet was cut through with the ringing sound of Jane’s palm coming down hard across his face, though the leather of his mask saved him from most of the sting. The sound drew the attention of the others and Thor made a step in the direction of his wife, concern etched on his face.

_ “That  _ was for terrifying me in your garden and for starting all of this mess in the first place,” Jane hissed, jabbing a dainty finger at him with the same violence a warrior would use to wield a dagger. 

James stared dejectedly at his boots, his hair hanging in his face. He knew he deserved every ounce of her ire, every single accusation. The blame was all his to bear and he was almost thankful that someone had finally spoken out loud what he knew was the truth. Any harm that came to Darcy was his fault and his alone. He startled when Jane shifted and moved in closer to him, ducking her head to catch his eyes. 

In a far gentler tone she said, “And this is for making Darcy so happy,” and then slipped her slender arms around his middle to tightly embrace him. 

James blinked slowly, unsure of what to do in light of Jane’s forgiveness and certainly not believing he deserved it. Jane sniffled quietly into his chest and he was appalled to discover that she was openly weeping against him.

“Save my sister,” Jane whispered fervently. 

At her words, he finally relaxed against her, his hands coming down to rest lightly against her narrow shoulders.

“I will,” he promised solemnly. 

Jane stepped back from him then, wiping at her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. She fixed him with a stern glare and poked at the center of his chest. “Don’t make me regret that hug,” she demanded and then abruptly turned away from him to march back to her husband. Thor smiled brightly at his little wife, tugging her into his side and proudly kissing the top of her head. 

Next to them, Lady Margaret looked up, searching the field for their final ally one last time. With a frown, she glanced at Coulson and cursed under her breath. 

“I think we are as ready as we will ever be, General,” Coulson said with a shrug. 

Lady Margaret nodded, perturbed at the absence of Stark but acknowledging that there was nothing to do but carry on. She motioned to Coulson who then called out to the others, bringing them close to gather around the map of the lake and the surrounding forest. Margaret began charging each group with their positions and giving out orders only to be interrupted by a cocky voice calling out from the edge of the group. 

“And where will I be, Aunt Peg? I’m thinking something centerstage, lots of prestige, wherever the best lighting is? She’s my child, after all. I think that affords me some latitude.” 

Margaret looked up slowly to pin the man with the nastiest, most terrifying glare that she kept within her arsenal. “Anthony Stark,” she said between clenched teeth. “I was beginning to think you were going to continue your habit of avoiding your responsibilities in favor of more selfish pursuits.” 

Stark, looking thoroughly cowed, hemmed and hawed before replying. “Ah yes, well, Pepper gave me a tongue lashing that would impress even you.”

Margaret raised a brow in surprise and definite approval. “Tony, remind me to pay her a visit when all of this is over. I believe she and I have a great deal to talk about.” 

Stark visibly paled and Margaret’s smile grew sharp in response before she returned her attention to the map. Sending a spark shuttling across the parchment, she indicated a specific spot. “Your post is there. You and the others will wait for my signal before making your presence known, is that understood?” 

Tony nodded, looking solemn for the first time since he had swaggered into the clearing. Margaret looked over her assembled team, assessing each one as her gaze swept over them. She indicated to Bruce, Jane, and Thor to partner up with the assembled fairies who would carry them to the lake and gestured to James to stand with her. With a final steady breath, she signaled for their departure. On her cue, the clearing lit up with the mingled magics of the fairies as they dematerialized to reappear in position behind the treeline around the lake. 

In the distance, near the epicenter of the ice, Margaret could just make out the figure of Ophelia, dripping in an elaborate, emerald green gown that sparkled shockingly against the ice in the midday sun. There were two other figures standing near her in more muted tones: one black, the other a dark violet. 

James’ eyes had caught on the figures as well and his hands twitched around his sword. He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat and turned to Margaret, pleading with his eyes for her to give the next signal. The woman inclined her head slightly in acquiescence and James sighed in relief as he, Coulson, and Margaret stepped out of the treeline and began walking out onto the ice. It was an achingly slow trek and it burned at him to keep such a slow pace when every fiber in his body was screaming at him to run to Darcy. He could see her clearer now with each step, her body wrapped in a dress that matched the bruising around her eyes. She looked unharmed, if exhausted and terrified, and the part of his mind that had been tormenting him with images of her broken and bloodied shriveled away to give him a small semblance of peace. 

When they were a handful of yards away from Darcy, Margaret signaled for their trio to halt. It took all of James’ self control to obey and not rush towards Darcy. To Darcy’s right, Madame Hydra stood tall and proud and breathtakingly beautiful, her auburn hair artfully swept up around her head in heavy curls. The sight made him sick, his empty stomach rolling with every memory that her face dragged forward. Slightly behind Madame Hydra and to her right, Ward stood watching the gathering with uneasy eyes, but it was clear by the hand he placed on Ophelia’s waist who his true mistress was. Coulson and Margaret exchanged looks of hurt and disgust over Ward’s betrayal.

James only took slight notice of Ward before his eyes were back on Darcy, drinking in every lovely inch of her. The dress she wore was not one he had seen before, and did not look like one of Raina’s creations, even to his untrained eyes, but it did smack of something that Ophelia would have preferred. It was dripping with violet beads--so dark they were nearly black--that crisscrossed the bodice of the gown and then were strung together to cover the bare skin of Darcy’s decolletage and throat. The dress itself was made in gauzy fabrics that overlaid to create a burgundy color that faded to deep violet around her legs. Her hair was down and curling softly around her face, unadorned save for the coronet of jagged amethyst that sat atop her head. She was truly exquisite, save for the terror in her eyes. 

Ophelia cleared her throat delicately, breaking the tense silence and drawing James’ attention. “Hello James,” she said sweetly. “It’s lovely to see you again. Have you missed me?” Her teeth gleamed white and sharp in a menacing smile. 

At the sound of her voice, James began to shake like a leaf. “Let Darcy go,” he replied through gritted teeth, ignoring Ophelia’s question.

“You’re not even going to greet me?” she returned with offense. “Your manners were so much better when we were together.” James shuddered, her words drawing bitter memories to the surface. “You were always so good at pleasing me, don’t you remember?” 

Margaret, alarmed at how violently James was shaking, stepped forward. “That’s quite enough, Ophelia. You’ll not get your claws in him again. Give us back the girl and be on your way. I will only warn you once.”

Ophelia tilted her head, her movements disconcerting in their disjointed nature. “You are awfully hasty to ask for her back when I have a rather compelling second option.” With a nasty smile, she motioned to Ward who gave a sudden snap of his fingers. 

Margaret gasped, feeling as if all the air had left her body at the sight of her lost love. Steven stood before them, tall and proud and beautiful and somehow untouched by time or death. His eyes looked lost, distant, as if he were not completely present behind them. 

James nearly choked as the memories flooded into him. Unbidden, he reached out towards the man he had once called brother. “Stevie?” he called, his voice sounding young and lost, even to his own ears. 

Steven’s eyes snapped to him, shuttering with clear suspicion. “Who the hell is Stevie?”

The question burned through both James and Margaret like a punch to the gut and both found it hard to breathe for a long, torturous moment. 

“You see?” Ophelia explained. “Quite a dilemma isn’t it, James? Because I hold everything dear to you in the palm of my hand.” She paused, crossing her arms and thoughtfully drumming the fingers of one hand against her upper arm. “You know, when I came here I originally thought to raise his corpse. To finally give you a body to bury. And then when I found him frozen but alive and practically untouched...I just could not believe my luck. Of course, I couldn’t have him interfering today so I’ve got his memories tucked away for safekeeping at the moment. But wouldn’t you just look at him?” she turned to gesture at Steven with a dramatic sweep of her arm. “Hearty and hale and as beautiful as ever. Wouldn’t you agree, Margaret?” She aimed a cruel smile at the other woman. “And to think, he’s been here all these years, frozen and alone under the ice, waiting for his lady love to return and retrieve him. But it appears I got here first!”

Ophelia clapped her hands in delight, her tittering laughter driving the knife deeper in Margaret’s heart. Tears crept into the corner of Margaret’s eyes and a low growl vibrated in her throat.

“I think we can thank Erskine and his generous gift for keeping Steven in such excellent condition under the ice and for surviving the blast of the Tesseract in the first place,” Ophelia continued thoughtfully. “Amazing, really. Now,” she said, all business. “This can go one of two ways: the first, you take your brother and leave this place and never hear from me again....” She paused, letting the statement hang in the air before continuing. “Or, you take the girl....and leave your brother with me. To use as I please...for as long as I please. I’ve been wanting for an assassin for quite some time, as you know. I think he’ll take your place quite nicely.” Malice filled her green eyes.

“No. No you cannot do this. Please... _ please, _ just let them go,” James begged, his voice ragged and hands clenched at his sides. “They’ve done  _ nothing  _ to deserve this.”

Ophelia seemed pleased by his words. “Begging already? That didn’t take long, did it?” She peered over her shoulder to smirk in triumph at Ward, then turned back, seeming to consider James’ plea. 

“Perhaps...since you’ve asked so nicely, perhaps there is a third option for you, my darling. I let them both go, as you requested. Steven can be reunited with his love to live a long, happy life. Darcy can return to her family, safe and loved.” 

James’ eyes bounced between his brother and his love, hoping against hope that Ophelia’s offer was an honest one. She saw the glint of hope in his eyes and thoroughly relished in crushing it. 

“All I would desire in exchange for their lives is for you to return to me. Forever.” Ophelia smiled, wide and wicked, her mouth seemingly holding too many teeth than what was natural. James’ stomach turned and he felt the acid of it burning up his throat as the implications of his return brought to mind all that she had done to him in the past. 

Darcy’s eyes grew wide, desperation and rage shining clear from their blue depths. Until that moment she had been standing perfectly still, uncharacteristically silent through the whole proceeding. She began to twitch and struggle in place until her mouth finally popped open with what seemed like great effort. 

“James,  _ no-”  _ she shouted before being abruptly cut off with a sharp gesture from Ophelia. Darcy’s mouth snapped shut with an unnatural sharpness and the humming of her voice in her throat halted. 

“That’s quite enough out of you,” Ophelia hissed, fury filling every harsh line of her body. She was rather infuriated at how adept the stupid little halfling was at breaking through her magic.

Margaret’s voice cut through Ophelia’s rage, drawing her attention away from the girl. “Ophelia, I knew you were a monster but I had no idea the depths of your depravity.  _ I will not allow you to do this,”  _ she said vehemently. Margaret loved the three people caught in Ophelia’s snare, loved them deeply, and she would not stand for them to suffer another moment at the wicked fairy’s hands.

“Oh?” Ophelia mocked. “I hold all the leverage Margaret, surely you can see that?” She motioned to Ward, who stepped closer to Steven, his hand glowing green and his palm aimed directly at Steven’s chest. 

Margaret dropped her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Perhaps. For now. But you are far outnumbered.” A gleam of triumph lit her brown eyes and then she gestured in the air, sending a shower of sparks high into the bright blue sky. At the signal, from all across the lake, her team began to appear on the ice, pinning them in on all sides. Ophelia glanced around but seemed unconcerned by the new development. 

Coulson’s team were all noticeably focused on Ward’s position next to Ophelia with his palm still aimed at Prince Steven. Daisy glared at him hard enough that it seemed to draw his eyes to hers. He met her with a shrug and a half smile that only seemed to infuriate her further. Behind him, Fitz and Jemma stood in position, just as devastated by the betrayal as Daisy was. Fitz looked near tears, his cheeks flushed with anger. His left hand began to tremble slightly and Jemma, with heavy eyes, reached out to take his hand in her firm grasp. Fitz looked to her at the touch and something in her eyes seemed to ground him.

Ophelia took in her surroundings, still unconcerned, and folded her hands demurely in front of her chest. “Am I, truly?” she mocked. The meek demeanor leached away from her body to be replaced by glee as she gave a snap of her fingers. All around the ice, interspersed among the members of Margaret’s soldiers, other fairies began to appear. 

These appearances were met with gasps of shock and rage as Margaret and her team saw many faces that they recognized and had trusted. Lady Margaret scanned the crowd of newcomers, fury clear and untamed in her dark eyes. A flicker of movement behind Ophelia drew Margaret’s eyes back to her as a man stepped around her. 

“Alexander?” she questioned breathlessly.

The handsome, older man folded his hands behind his back and gave her a casual, familiar smile. “Hullo, Peggy. It’s unfortunate we had to see each other again under such circumstances.” 

“What the hell is going on here?” she demanded, her cold fury icing over every syllable. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Aunt Peg. You can’t tell me you didn’t see this coming?” he asked in a pleasant voice. “No? Well, perhaps not,” he added with a smirk.

Her voice shook with her rage. “How  _ dare  _ you do this, Alexander Pierce. I trained you! I made you into a leader. Hel, I practically  _ raised _ you! And this is how you repay me? By betraying me and everything I stand for by joining forces with  _ that _ woman?”

Pierce shrugged and stepped a pace closer to her, an easy, charming smile in place on his lips. “I don’t know what to tell you, Peg. Ophelia came to me and showed me a different world. A bigger one. And one that I could shape in a way that  _ I _ choose. That held more appeal to me than your never-ending crusades for justice.” He paused to sweep his arm around at the others. “And as you can see, I’m not the only one who felt that way.”

“You will regret this, I swear it,” she vowed, her voice shaking. 

Pierce merely smirked. “We shall see.”

Without warning, he lashed out at his old mentor, magic unfurling from his hands like a glowing whip. Margaret easily dodged the blow but the attack acted as the signal for the battle to begin. All around the lake, fighting started between both sides, the violence sudden and startling in its intensity. Ophelia looked around at the open warfare with a subtle expression of disdain. In the blink of an eye, she had repositioned herself and her captives to safety at the edge of the lake, behind the line of defense that her ever increasing number of fairies made. 

Darcy watched the proceeding melee with increasing horror. She was a child born to a peaceful time and, despite the more interesting turns that her life had taken of late, she had never truly been witness to violence on such a grand scale. The battle raging before her eyes stole her breath and tore at her gut. The roar of battle cries, rushing feet, and the crackle of fairy magic rose to a fever pitch, reverberating off the ice and causing her to clutch at her ears to block the sound. She desperately wished she could close her eyes against the madness, the erratic movement of so many people making her dizzy, but she was too terrified. Some superstitious piece of her frightened soul was convinced that if she closed her eyes, even for a moment, she would doom her friends and loved ones to certain death. It made no logical sense, but in her primal, fearful state she could nothing but obey the notion. 

As the bodies on the ice swirled and moved, Darcy was able to catch fleeting glances of her friends. She treasured each moment that she caught sight of them, knowing they were still alive, still fighting. Her eyes skirted around the battlefield, taking in the rising number of dead, praying none of the bodies littering the ice belonged to Coulson’s team. She had yet to set eyes on James and she did not know whether the sharp stab of emotion she felt was relief or fear. The seconds dragged on, agonizing in their endlessness, and a horrifying realization slowly began to creep into the crevices of Darcy’s terror addled consciousness. 

They were going to lose. 

Coulson’s battalion was tired, the fighters’ movements beginning to lag under the strain of so many enemy combatants. They were sorely outnumbered and fast approaching the point of exhaustion that would lead to missteps and a bloody death. Even without their ensuing fatigue, many of Coulson’s team were sporting injuries that could quickly become debilitating. Darcy had watched Fitz drag a wounded Trip to Jemma at the edge of the ice where she was running triage with Jane’s assistance. Both Daisy’s wrists appeared to be broken. Thor was bleeding heavily from an ugly gash on his right thigh. Despite this, as far as Darcy could tell, Coulson had yet to lose any of his warriors. 

Madame Hydra’s troops had taken heavy losses, however, their bodies strewn haphazardly across the ice, including Ward’s. Darcy had watched him fall under the furious onslaught that had led to Daisy breaking her wrists. Madame Hydra’s troops were green, easily eliminated by Coulson’s more experienced warriors...but there were just  _ so many _ of them. It was like trying to fight back a rising tide. 

Darcy’s eyes finally landed on James, the glint of bright sunlight on his arm drawing her attention. He was just as brutal and breathtaking as he had been the night he had slaughtered the Wolves. Once her eyes latched on to him, she could not bear to look away from him. She watched him narrowly swing out of the path of a glowing spear of fae magic, only to turn and thrust his blade through the belly of his opponent. The taste of copper burst over her tongue as the abused skin of her lips finally tore under the attention of her teeth. Strangely, the sharp flavor seemed to help her focus, snapping her mind from the frittering, overstimulated mess it had been since the fighting had begun. 

Angrily, she turned from the battle for the first time to level a glare at Ophelia. “If you want James back so badly,” she hissed, “how can you leave him out there to die by the hands of your men?”

The fairy spared her a brief glance. “He has fought against worse odds and always won,” she replied evenly. “He will not die today. At least, not on the battlefield.”

Darcy shook her head in disbelief, her eyes glittering with disgust. “Why are you doing this? All of this. To him, to them?  _ Why?” _

Ophelia’s eyes were clear, her gaze steady as she watched the battle before her. Her face held no expression, her voice no inflection as she replied, “Control. It has always ever been about control.”

Darcy was silenced and unsettled at the madness she could feel emanating from Ophelia. Darcy swallowed back her revulsion at the realization that Ophelia was truly unhinged and would not stop until she was dead. Resolve coiled hard and ugly in Darcy’s gut. She was no warrior, no murderer, but she would find a way to end that woman if it was the last thing she did. 

Without a weapon to carry out her mission, Darcy resigned to watching the battle once more, biding her time. At once, her eyes were drawn back to James. He was at the epicenter of the battle, fighting in the thickest of it and making it hard for her to follow his movements. Suddenly, the bodies parted long enough for her to see James dispatch a fairy with great, green, bird-like claws for hands. The strange fae dropped to the ground with eyes already glazed. James stood over him, his chest heaving with exertion, and then he looked up. From across the ice, his eyes met hers. It felt as if time had slowed, running thick and sticky like molasses. She could hear her heart thundering in her ears and knew that it matched his with every beat. 

Something gleamed and glimmered over his shoulder and her gaze broke from his. Her heart abruptly stuttered in her chest at the sight of Alexander Pierce hurling what looked like a shard of puce-colored glass the length and thickness of her arm at James’ back. James must have seen the horror in her eyes for he began to turn his head. With a sick feeling in her belly, she knew he would not be able to escape the path of the weapon. 

That was when Thor slid into place in front of James. The spear-like shard pierced through her brother-in-law, lodging in his chest with enough force to send him stumbling back a pace. 

Time seemed to snap back into place once more, speeding along faster than she could almost comprehend. James flung a dagger at Pierce, landing it in the soft hollow of his throat with a wet thud. Pierce and Thor both fell to their knees in the same moment, Thor’s hammer falling to the ice as his hands came up to brush weakly at the glass. Thor began to sway on his knees, his hands falling limply to his sides. James caught him around the shoulders and lowered him gently the rest of the way to the ground.

The twin deaths sent a ripple across the battlefield as both sides halted in their efforts. Ophelia’s troops seemed lost and unsure, having lost their general. A heavy hush descended over the ice, the abrupt loss of sound making Darcy’s ears hum. A twisted, aching wail rose up and cut through the silence. Darcy closed her eyes, her own heart echoing the sound. When she opened them again, she followed the sound to Jane. Her sister was sobbing where she knelt on the edge of the battlefield, her hands and skirts stained red from the blood of the wounded. Jemma had a tight grip around her shoulders, keeping her from dashing across the ice to her slain husband, the father of her unborn child, the once Crown Prince of Asgard. 

Darcy turned to the side and retched into the snow. Her hands shook as tears streamed down her face only to freeze in the harsh winter air. Madame Hydra looked at her with open disgust as Darcy spat the last bit of bile from her mouth. She opened her mouth, no doubt to say something vile and cutting to Darcy, but paused, cocking her head to one side as if listening to something. Her auburn brows drew together, confusion wrinkling her pale brow.

There was a minute shift in the atmosphere, a strange tingling in the air that filled Darcy’s lungs and rolled over her tongue to dance against her teeth. She licked her lips, searching out the strange taste. In the next moment, the hair along her forearms and at the base of her skull began to stand on end. A shiver raced down her spine at the sensation and she raised her arms to inspect the reaction. A shadow fell over her and she turned her head up only to see that the once bright, empty sky was now filled with the sudden appearance of rolling thunderheads. Her eyes widened at the precipitous change and she jerked her attention back to the center of the ice. There was a low hum that she felt more than heard that seemed to be coming from Thor’s prone body. The strange taste on her tongue unexpectedly sharpened and with a gasp she watched Thor’s body begin to rise from the ice. James and those closest to him backed away from the eerie sight, stumbling over one another to make room. 

From the other side of the battlefield, Darcy heard Jane grow abruptly silent. The hum grew heavier, buzzing palpably across her skin. Then, with a blinding a flash, a bolt of lightning broke from the sky, striking the glass in Thor’s chest. The boom of thunder that instantly followed shook the earth, causing many to stumble to their knees. For a moment, Darcy had to look away as Thor’s body was enveloped in streaks of lightning. More bursts of lightning rained down from the sky to strike him, only to then arc out from his body as it continued to rise. 

With bated breath, the entire assembly watched in horrified silence as Thor rose ever higher until he was but a glowing spec against the dark sky. There was a crack of ice, the pop and rush of air as if a vacuum had broken, and then Thor’s hammer began to glow and shot into the sky after its master. The hammer collided with the tangle of lightning surrounding Thor with a resounding boom that sent Darcy to her hands and knees. Startled cries came from all over the ice and she jerked her head up to catch sight of her brother-in-law, very much alive and every bit of the godlike Prince that he once was, barreling back towards the earth. She scuttled back onto her feet, her eyes never leaving his descent. 

He raised his hammer and with a mighty roar landed back at the center of the ice, sending streaks of lightning through dozens of Ophelia’s men with a single blow. Their singed and smoking corpses fell to the ice as Thor rose to his feet. There was a moment of shocked anticipation before it burst like a soap bubble and then the fighting began again in earnest. 

Darcy could hear strangled, manic laughter coming from somewhere. It was only when Ophelia snapped her head around to glare murderously at her that she realized the laughter was coming from her own throat. Ophelia took a menacing step in her direction, but her attention was diverted by the screams coming from the battlefield. Darcy watched in exhilarated silence as the heroes rallied around Thor’s revival. Between their renewed spirit and Thor’s brutal, sweeping attacks, it took but moments to see that Margaret and Coulson’s warriors were gaining the upper hand. The tide was turning in their favor and quickly. Hope sparked pure and piercing between Darcy’s ribs. 

As the fighting continued, the battle began drawing closer to where Ophelia and her captives were watching, the lines of defence shrinking with every passing moment. Darcy was utterly delighted to see shadows of worry begin to shift behind Ophelia’s eyes. 

Ophelia’s shoulders began to twitch and she started to pace, her head swinging from side to side as she kept a steady eye on the encroaching battle. After several moments, she stopped in her tracks, seemingly coming to some sort of conclusion. With teeth gritted, she grasped Darcy’s arm with one hand and the empty-eyed Steven with the other. Her grip was bruising in its force as she urged her captives back away from the ice and towards the tree line. Steven ambled along at her urging, docile and silent, his eyes unfocused. Darcy had no such compunction to obey and dug her heels into the snow, struggling against Ophelia’s iron grip. With a sharp jerk of her shoulder, she ripped free and turned to run back to the lakeshore. 

Ophelia gave an enraged shriek. Having lost all patience with the irksome halfling, she dashed after her, catching up with her in but a handful of steps. She latched onto the girl’s arm with one hand and raised her other hand to deal her a deathblow as she shrugged off her humanoid skin to reveal her true faces. With glee, she watched from seven pairs of eyes as Darcy’s face drained of color at the sight of her fae form. Her nails, now long and sharp and black as beetle husks, extended out from the tips of her fingers, catching the girl’s attention. 

It was Ophelia’s intent to sweep her claws down and rend the girl’s throat to tatters but a shout from the ice stayed her hand. 

She looked up and met the eyes of her sweet pet, seven identical smiles curling over her faces. The smiles quickly faded as her sharp eyes took note of the dagger that he had hurled at her that was swiftly soaring towards her. It was purely instinct that caused her to jerk the hand holding the halfling. It was pure coincidence that the motion pulled the girl in front of her just in time for the blade to bury itself in the girl’s gut. What joyful happenstance, she thought as she watched the light of triumph in James’ eyes dim and burn away into horror. 

Her smiles reclaimed her faces, the wicked points of her teeth gleaming with the sheen of venom. James loosed a heartbroken scream that sent thrills through Ophelia. She was no fool, she could see that her troops were all either dead or soon to be subdued at that point, but she could not shake the feeling of triumph as she watched James rush towards her and the halfling. 

The little wretch gave a pathetic whimper, her shaking hands coming to rest against her belly. Ophelia could smell the coppery tang of the girl’s blood as it swelled around the buried hilt of the dagger and began to seep down the front her dress. What a waste of a beautiful gown, Ophelia thought. She would never be able to get all that blood out. 

When James was but ten paces away, she held up her hand, stopping him in his tracks. His eyes flicked desperately to the girl, tears gathering at the edges of his thick lashes. 

“Darling, look what you’ve done now,” she intoned sweetly. The words held a slight hiss to them as they traveled over her tongue and fangs. “You fought so hard to save her from me and yet it is by  _ your _ hand that she will die.” She giggled from seven throats, the sounds muddling together in dissonant peals. 

James choked on a sob. He clenched his hands helplessly at his side. His eyes never left the girl’s face, which only served to irritate Ophelia. 

“James,” she called tartly. “It’s rude to ignore someone when they are speaking to you.” She let a tiny drop of her venom drip from her teeth to land on the girl’s bare shoulder. She gave a cry of pain as the venom burned away at her pretty skin. 

“Stop!  _ Please, _ just stop!” James cried, finally directing his attention toward her. 

“What does it matter?” she asked, stroking the back of her hand against the girl’s cheek. “She’s already dying, my dear. Even now I can feel her heart slowing, her pulse growing weak and faint.”

Ophelia cradled Darcy into her side in a facsimile of an embrace. Darcy cringed away from the monstrous woman but was too weak to put more than an inch of distance between their sides. The pain from her shoulder and her belly were numb now, distant and unassuming. The sorrow in James’ eyes hurt more than any of her afflictions. She swayed towards him, her legs near giving out. Only Ophelia’s iron grip around her shoulders kept her standing. 

More taunts fell from Ophelia’s lips, as acidic and cruel as her venom. With every word, Darcy witnessed James crumble. Her vision began to tunnel, the edges going dark and unfocused, but she willed her eyes to keep his face in focus. Regret roiled in her chest. She was going to die having never having truly seen his face. She thought she might have sobbed at that realization, but her hearing was starting to fade and the numbness of her body left her unsure. 

She was dying, her life spilling out in red tears on the snow, and she was going to leave him. And what then, she wondered. Would she be leaving him in the clutches of that villain? To be used and broken again and again and  _ again?  _ Determination stirred in her veins, her resolution from earlier coming back to her. 

Darcy took one last look at the man she loved. She took in every detail of him--every line, every slope, the depth of his eyes, the texture of his hair--she gathered all these things within her heart and tenderly said goodbye to them. She latched onto the ache of her sorrow, pushing it out and down along her arms, making her hands move through force of will alone. Gripping the dagger tightly with both hands, she yanked it from her gut. A wave of hot blood gushed in the wake of the blade, pouring down to further drench her front. She thought she might have released a soft cry. She thought she might have heard mocking laughter from Ophelia. It mattered not. 

She turned the dagger in trembling fingers, gripped it tightly between palms slippery with blood and swiftly plunged the dagger into Ophelia. The blade slid in just below her sternum, angled up to nick the heart. Darcy knew it was not enough, she wasn’t strong enough to drive the dagger home. She ignored Ophelia’s shriek of rage and hooked her ankle with the mad fae’s, jerking her leg with her last bit of strength. Ophelia tumbled backwards and Darcy followed her down, keeping her grip on the hilt and letting the weight of her body falling atop Ophelia’s bury the blade deep. Ophelia twitched beneath her once and then grew still. 

Strong hands folded over Darcy’s shoulders, rolling her away from Madame Hydra’s lifeless body. Darcy caught sight of her glazed, staring eyes and her quickly greying skin before her vision was taken over by brilliant blue-grey. James cradled her shoulders in his arms, her numb body lying limp and bloody in the snow. His head hung low, hair tickling her cheeks, and she was surprised to feel the warm wetness of his tears falling on her cheeks and lips. Through her muddled thoughts, she realized he was begging her not leave him and some clarity returned.  _ Of course, _ she thought,  _ he weeps because he loves me… and I am dying. _

_ What a strange thing to forget. _

“Marry me?” she breathed out between numb lips. 

James felt as if his heart had been caught by the barbs of a fishhook and jerked from his chest. He cradled his love closer. A choked laugh twisted with a wretched sob in his chest at the terrible irony of Darcy’s proposal. He nodded sharply, repeatedly, until his throat opened enough for him to reply with a fervent string of assent. Darcy’s full lips, once so vibrant and deep red but now pale and bloodless, curved into a gentle smile. It was a fleeting thing, precious in its beauty, tragic in its transience. Her face went slack and her eyes dimmed and James knew his beloved was gone. 

He moaned, long and low, then folded himself over her lifeless body, bringing his forehead to rest against hers. Her skin was cold where it had always been so warm. He felt that cold echoing in the emptiness of his chest. 

Lady Margaret did not see Darcy felled; she was still in the midst of battling the last of Madame Hydra’s army, but she felt the searing pain as the markings etched across her heart flared to life. In a breathless moment, Margaret realized that her goddaughter was slain. She viciously cut down the fae who was engaging her, her desperation to find her godchild so strong that it made her magic even more precise and deadly than usual. With her opponent dispatched, she scanned the field, searching for Darcy. It took her but a heartbeat to see where James knelt hunched over what was surely Darcy’s lifeless body. Margaret gave a soft cry of despair. 

For many years, she had watched this lovely girl grow into an even lovelier woman. She had visited Darcy frequently in her babyhood, peering over the hand-carved Selvig family cradle as the occupants of the house slept. She had stroked the darling chubby cheeks of the sleeping babe, whispering spells of health and heartiness and letting the magic thread itself through Darcy’s terribly soft skin. As Darcy had grown older into childhood and the risk of her succumbing to the deadly illnesses of infancy passed, Margaret had not come quite as often, but still...she could not stay away for too long. She mourned the day when she realized Darcy was too old--too easily awoken and too hard to convince that Margaret was just a figment of a dream--for her to visit at night while she slept. She had desperately missed the nights when she could stroke Darcy’s dark, silky curls and watch as her eyes flitted behind her closed lids. Margaret had eventually taken to disguising herself as strangers in town in order to interact with Darcy while she was awake. She found her to be kind and charming and irreverent as only Anthony Stark’s daughter could be. In truth, she had come to love the girl.

When Thor had come into the life of the Selvig sisters, Margaret had kept an eye on things, though from a distance. She knew the crown prince would recognize her for what she was and did not wish to be outed at the time. Margaret found great relief in Thor’s installation in the girls’ lives as she felt they would be better protected. Then when she had orchestrated the events leading Darcy to James, she had thought that Darcy would be the one to break the curse, and that perhaps Margaret could bring love and joy to them both. James would be happy and whole and Darcy would be radiant and safe. James would have kept her safe.

But something had gone horribly wrong the moment that Ophelia had sunk her claws into Margaret’s plans, rending them to shreds. It started first with the kidnapping of Darcy, then revealing the betrayal of Pierce and so many others, and finally in killing the girl Margaret had come to care for so deeply. 

Margaret loosed a ragged breath, anger rising up to overtake the icy despair at seeing Darcy’s body in the snow. She closed her eyes, centering herself and drawing in her magic like a cloak around her shoulders. She brought it in tighter and tighter, contracting it under her skin and muscles, beneath the cage of her bones until it was all in a tight coil around her heart. Still she brought it in closer, until it was a single, bright point of pure magic within her breast. Then, with a deep, shaking breath, she pushed at her magic, pressing it into the runes of Darcy’s name that were scrawled onto the blood red muscle of her heart. Margaret felt the thread that bound her to Darcy begin to vibrate as her magic was propelled along it. With a soft gasp, Margaret dropped to her knees, exhausted from her efforts. 

As James curled over Darcy, a bright light burning through his closed lids drew him from his misery. He opened them, finding the source of the piercing glow coming from Darcy’s skin in the place just above her heart. He jerked upright, glancing between the light and her still lifeless face and then back again. The white glow grew brighter. James lifted an unsteady hand and lowered it to her chest. As soon as his palm met her body, the white light exploded out in a wave of brilliant color and sound with enough force to throw him back several feet. 

He did not have time to process the strange event before his body was abruptly awash with staggering pain. White hot and burning, it felt as if his entire body was slowly being dipped into molten metal. His eyes rolled back in his head as his body bowed up from the ground, every muscle fiber in his body on fire. He must have screamed, but he could not be sure as his mind whited out under the onslaught. As the pain rose up over his body, it seemed to focus and intensify over his face and left arm until there was nothing left but the burning. 

As suddenly as it had overtaken him, the pain ceased and he came back to himself. Some distant part of his mind catalogued the harsh panting of his own breaths, the sound of wind whipping through trees, and the odd tickling of gentle fingers over his cheeks, chin, and lips. 

“If I had known how pretty you were, I would not have waited so long to accept your proposals.”

James’ eyes snapped open at the familiar, lilting voice. Above him, her dark curls haloed in sunlight, Darcy peered down at him, her eyes bright and filled with mirth. She bore the evidence of vibrant life in the blush on her cheeks and the crimson of her lips. He made a startled noise in his chest and moved to sit up, only to stumble back into the snow when his left arm failed him. He glanced at the uncooperative appendage. His irritation faded to realization as he took in the sight of a brutalized flesh arm that ended in a scarred stump a handbreadth above where his elbow joint should have been. 

He blinked slowly at the sight and then memory descended on him unfettered. He remembered losing his arm, losing his brother. He remembered who he once was, the life he had lead before falling into that wicked woman’s clutches. James loosed a startled laugh, something between relief and disbelief, and returned his attention to Darcy’s smiling face. With his remaining hand, he reached up to palm the back of her neck, drawing her down to meet him. If he could not rise up to kiss her, then he would certainly improvise. 

Darcy’s grin grew wider and she let him pull her down. Her plush lips were the softest damned things he had ever felt in his exceedingly long life. They captured and cradled his with a joy and tenderness that sent waves of dizziness over him and drew a low hum of contentment from his chest. At the sound, she smiled against him and nipped at his lower lip. 

“Darcy,” he murmured, then traced her lower lip with the tip of his tongue. She responded with a soft whimper, opening her mouth to him and deepening the kiss. Her hands that had been propped against his chest swept up to bury in his hair and stroke along his cheeks. She shifted her legs until her knees settled on either side of his left thigh. The pleasure and pressure of her body against his overwhelmed him and tears gathered at the edge of his eyes and then slipped down into his hair. 

Darcy drew back at the sudden wetness on her fingertips. “Oh,  _ my love,”  _ she whispered with aching sweetness. She dropped back down, pressing frantic kisses over his damp cheeks, over his nose, along the long line of his jaw, and back over his chin to capture his lips in another breathless kiss. His hand flexed in her curls and he rolled his hips into hers with a heady moan. 

A throat clearing nearby had them jerking apart and peering over Darcy’s shoulder to see an unamused Lady Margaret standing with her hands braced on her hips. Her lieutenant and his warriors gathered behind her, their expressions ranging from mild discomfort, to ecstatic joy, to wicked glee. Darcy gave a squeak and scrambled off his lap, busying herself with helping James sit up. 

“‘Lo Peggy,” James said with a shameless grin. “It’s been a while.”

“Indeed,” she said, her left brow rising sharply. “I am pleased to see you in such good health.” Her eyes drifted over his stump. “Well, for the most part.”

James’ grin grew wider and more shameless, if possible. “Don’t worry about that, Peg. Lucky for Darcy, all the important appendages are in pristine condition.” He shot a wink at his beloved who graced him with a wide-eyed look and furious blush. 

Peggy sighed and pinched her lips in preparation of some sharp retort but was cut off by a tremulous voice coming from behind James. 

“James?”

He jerked his head around, catching sight of his golden haired brother. His gut clenched as he gracelessly stumbled to his feet, closing the distance between them. He enveloped his brother in a hug that was no less fierce for his missing arm. 

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Steven cried when the two pulled apart. 

“So were you, little brother,” James chuckled. 

Steven shook his golden head, much like a dog clearing water from his coat. “What...what the hell is going on?”

James’ grin grew somewhat grim. “That is a long story, Stevie. But first,” he turned over his shoulder, beckoning towards Darcy with renewed cheer, “I’d like you to meet Darcy, my wife-to-be.”

Steven’s blue green eyes widened in surprise. Darcy carefully approached the two and curtsied stiffly, holding tightly to James’ hand. It was not everyday you were introduced to the brother of the man you were planning to marry. Especially when that brother happened to be a legendary prince. Of course, that made James a legendary  _ king,  _ but once you’ve kissed a man senseless it is hard to be intimidated by his reputation.

Steven took her free hand and bowed elegantly over it. “I am surprised, though delighted by this news,” he assured her, a soft smile playing at his lips though confusion lingered in his eyes. “It is lovely to meet you, Lady Darcy.”

Darcy snorted inelegantly. “It is lovely to meet you as well, but I must tell you that I am not a lady, nor a woman of any highborn station.” 

Steven jerked his attention to his brother, a stern look in his eyes. “A commoner? James, have you lost your mind? You would break the laws of our kingdom for this woman?” 

Darcy pinched her lips together, her mood turning sour. 

James clapped his hand to his brother’s shoulder. “For this woman? I would break the very laws of nature,” he vowed solemnly. “Don’t fret, Stevie. Much has happened since we both supposedly died. You will find that we no longer have a kingdom in the first place, so it doesn’t much matter that Darcy is lowborn.”

“Lowborn?” A dark haired man with an artfully styled goatee broke away from the crowd of fairies milling about on the ice. “If I might interject,” he said tartly, continuing without waiting for the three to respond. “This woman is heir to the Stark line, making her doubly highborn in that she is both fae  _ and  _ royalty. She makes you two trumped up mortals look like peasants in comparison,” he declared, folding his arms haughtily over his chest. 

Darcy shot a look at the man that clearly stated she thought he was a lunatic. “I beg your pardon sir, but that is untrue. I was born to Anna and Erik Selvig. Two mortals without titles.”

The man cocked his head to the side. “Well, you were certainly born to Anna…”

Darcy shot him a sharp glare. “And what  _ exactly  _ is that supposed to mean?” she menaced. 

The man smirked, unaffected by her ire. 

“Anthony Stark!” Lady Margaret drew towards them, having recovered from her exhaustion somewhat and far too perturbed with Stark to put up with him any further. “For the sake of the Realms,  _ must  _ you be an insufferable ass at all times?”

“Only on the even and odd days of the week, Aunt Peg,” he replied impishly.

Peggy sighed and took Darcy by the hand, leveling a firm, though gentle, gaze at her. “Child, I am afraid he is right. The man who raised you, though he loved you dearly, was not your true father.”

Darcy’s mouth popped open, working awkwardly until she could croak out, “...then who?”

Peggy’s gaze drifted to Stark, her lips pressing into a thin, apologetic line. Darcy jerked to face the man, searching his face for a hint of truth. She hated it, the shock and  _ anger _ stirring in her gut, but she could not deny that there were some striking resemblances between herself and the insufferable man before her. He had the decency to look somewhat shamefaced the longer she stared at him. 

“My mother...she wouldn’t…”

“Your mother was beautiful and lonely and human. She made a mistake,” he replied softly. He flashed a self deprecating half smile. “I’m just the lucky bastard who happened to meet her on a particularly lonely day.” The words should have angered her further but the self loathing rolling off the man stymied it somewhat. 

“So you’re a what? A prince?”

“A king, actually. Making you a princess. Welcome to royalty, sweetheart.” 

Darcy shook her head and leaned heavily into James’ side, who wrapped a reassuring arm around her. Stark eyed them both, obvious intelligence glittering behind his dark eyes. “You know,” he said, addressing James. “If you need a replacement for that monstrosity of an arm that Ophelia fitted you with, I’m sure I could create several prototypes for you. Something sleeker...more elegant. And that wouldn’t hurt like a son of a bitch.” 

James blinked at him, disgruntled.

“What?” Stark continued, unperturbed. “Think of it as my wedding gift to my new son-in-law.”

James shook his head, turning to his brother intent on sharing a look of disbelief with him. He found that Steven’s attention was elsewhere. Mainly, the love of his life, Lady Margaret. 

The couple stared intently at one another, lost to the conversation that flowed around them. It almost hurt to watch them, the emotion on their faces was so potent. The tension between the two seemed to snap in an instant and Steven crossed over to Peggy, sweeping her up into his arms to kiss her fervently. It was probably the most delighted and undignified James had ever seen Peggy. He thought it was an excellent look on her. 

“Why does everyone get a kiss except me?” his apparent future father-in-law whined. Stark pointed at Jemma and Daisy who were milling about and pretending they weren’t watching the proceedings intently. “What about you two lovelies? How do you feel about kissing older men?” He waggled his brows at the women. 

The day had been long and miserable for Darcy and she was exhausted after the strain of dying and then discovering her entire life was essentially a lie. Irritation at Stark’s flippant behavior boiled over and she found herself stepping away from James’ side to land a strike against her new found sire’s cheek. The blow made a sharp crack that was loud enough to shake Steven and Peggy from their passionate embrace. Everyone stared at Darcy in wide-eyed shock, and she was rather shocked at herself as well, when Steven’s golden laughter rang out. 

“James, I take back what I said. With a backhand like that, she is  _ absolutely _ perfect for you.” Steven’s grin was easy and honest, making Darcy’s cheeks warm pleasantly. 

She might be an impulsive woman, but it had landed her in the good graces of her brother-in-law, so it couldn’t be too terrible of a flaw. James’ arm snaked around her middle, drawing her back into his happily rumbling chest. 

“Indeed she is, Stevie,” James murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. “Indeed she is.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE FUCKING END OMG
> 
> (i'm so tired)
> 
> Darcy's dress can be found [here.](https://holdmecloseandfast.tumblr.com/post/176793068363/fashion-runways-marchesa-pre-fall-2016?is_related_post=1)
> 
> Ophelia's dress can be found [here.](https://holdmecloseandfast.tumblr.com/post/164013524723/inkxlenses-olga-malyarova-oh-my-god)


	17. An Ending and Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue to ties things up in a pretty bow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last we come to the end of this story.
> 
> To everyone who has read, given kudos, and commented on this fic: I am so grateful for all of you. Writing this has been an absolute pleasure and a large part of that is because of wonderful readers who have encouraged me the whole way. 
> 
> To my beta ladyaudiophile, I love you so much and you have become such a dear friend to me. I cannot even properly express how much you mean to me. Thank you for your hours and hours of encouragement, editing, and occasional bullying when I was being whiny brat and needed it. <3

The wedding was significantly more extravagant than Darcy had ever pictured for herself. Truly, as a young girl she had given very little thought to weddings, and marriage in general, until she had witnessed the resounding love that had blossomed between Jane and Thor. Even then, the bit of daydreaming that she allowed herself surrounding the idea of a wedding day was simplistic in nature. The occasion would be beautiful, yes, and joyous, to be sure, but small and unassuming. Maybe under the peaceful, swaying canopy of the woods near her childhood home, with Jane and Thor to bear witness along with any close members of her imagined groom’s family. Darcy thought that James would have rather liked her initial idea of what their handfasting ceremony should look like, but her wishes were quickly derailed by the fact that she had been claimed as fae royalty and apparently there were  _ rules of etiquette  _ that she simply could not refuse. 

In any case, Raina would have thrown an absolute  _ fit  _ had she not agreed to wear the admittedly gorgeous wedding gown she had created. And it wasn’t as if Darcy could comfortably wear the glorious thing in the middle of the woods. She would have looked positively ridiculous. 

Which was how she found herself being hovered over by a heavily pregnant Jane and a bevy of Stark house attendants and sweating nervously under the endless layers of gauzy fabric. Sitting next to her on the elegant couch, Jane reached over to pull Darcy’s hands away from where they had been picking at the material of her skirt. Jane frowned and began to rub warmth into Darcy’s freezing, trembling fingers. 

“Talk to me,” she demanded, leaving no room for argument. 

Darcy’s shoulders dropped and she glanced at her sister ruefully. “It’s just nerves. Feel like I might be ill at any moment.”

“Nerves? Surely you’re not second guessing marrying that poor man. After rejecting him for a year and then dying in his arms? Have you not made him suffer enough?” 

Darcy narrowed her eyes, tugging one hand from between Jane’s to pinch her leg. 

“Watch it, you brat. I’m a sacred vessel now, don’t you realize?” Jane patted at the swell of her belly, her tone holding some slight derision, though it was not directed at Darcy. 

With the return of Thor’s power, and consequently his right as heir to the throne of Asgard, the past five months had been rather trying for sweet Jane, who only cared for her stars and her family and could not care in the slightest about the politics of fae royalty or being crowned the new princess of Asgard. Her father-in-law was not an easy man to get along with, made all the harder for his obvious disdain for Jane’s mortality. The only esteem he held for the woman was that she now carried the future king or queen of Asgard in her belly. It was Odin who had bestowed the title of ‘sacred vessel’ upon her and it drove Jane to near distraction to be referred to as such. However, she held her tongue, in deference to her husband and respect for her mother-in-law, who happened to be a genuinely lovely woman. The wing of the castle that had been renovated into an enormous laboratory for her sake may have also played a small role in soothing her ire. 

“Yes, yes, I know. So very sacred,” Darcy replied. “It’s not James that has me all in knots. It’s everybody else! How am I supposed to stand up in front of all those people? And most of them aren’t even actually  _ people!”  _ Darcy dropped her face into her hands. “Damned fairies. And damned Starks!”

“Do mine ears deceive me or is someone cursing my good name?”

Darcy raised her head to see that her...sire had ambled into the room. “Tony, you don’t  _ have _ a good name.” 

“Too true,” he said ruefully. “Which is all the more reason to have your coronation as soon as you return from your honeymoon. Just think how good you’ll be for my reputation. The family name will once again be associated with...heroism and bravery and....” he waved his hand absently, his nose slightly wrinkled, “honesty, or something. I don’t know.”

Darcy cringed at the mention of her impending coronation. She had not taken to the idea of being royalty any better than Jane had. She might have taken it even worse, given that she was unknowingly born into it and did not have the choice of marrying into it. The idea of being a ruler of any kind did not set easily on her shoulders, but Tony had assured her that it would be hundreds of years before he would be old enough to justify stepping down from the throne. And despite the rocky moments of their first meeting, she grudgingly had to admit that she had come to like the man very much. They were eerily similar in both looks and personality, and when she wasn’t being contrary out of principle, she found that they got along like a house on fire. 

According to her fairy godmother Peggy (which she was still trying to wrap her head around) Tony was a much better man than he had been when he’d seduced her mother. Darcy could see that for herself as she’d grown to know the man. He had a very tender heart inside of him, despite his biting wit and humor. It was another trait they shared. No matter how close they grew though, Darcy did not think she would ever be able to see the man as a father figure. Erik loomed too large in her mind, his gentleness and his fatherly love was too ingrained. If anything, she felt as if Tony was a much older brother or perhaps an eccentric uncle, which seemed to suit them both just fine. 

“I’ll think about it,” she groaned. It was a conversation they’d had many times. “Let me see if I can survive this first and then I’ll make a decision.” She knew that as extravagant as her wedding was going to be, her coronation would far surpass it. Pepper was brilliant at organizing royal events and Tony had a flare for melodrama. Actually, in Darcy’s opinion, the overdramatic tendency seemed to be common with all the fae. It also explained her own breathtakingly destructive temper tantrums when she’d been a very young child.

Tony looked at her, really looked at her, cataloguing her pallor and slight tremble. She looked ever so small seated on the plush couch, her body enveloped by so many layers she nearly disappeared. She looked absolutely stunning...and absolutely terrified. It hurt him to see her like this, his only living family. His  _ child.  _ He had not even known about her existence for the majority of her life, not until his father had finally died and the Jarvises had been released from their blood oath to keep his daughter a secret from him. It had enraged Tony to no end, knowing that his father could keep something so tremendous from him. He still didn’t quite understand why Howard would do such a thing, though the little voice in the back of his mind was always insistent that it was because he would have been a terrible failure as a father. The little voice was what had kept him away from her, even after he’d found out about her. She was already near grown with a father she adored. He did not think she would be particularly thrilled to find she had another father.

So he’d left her alone and he and Pepper had kept close tabs on the girl over the years, watching her grow from afar. When the man who raised Darcy had died, Pepper had begun to push for him to perhaps reach out to her, but Tony was too much of a coward still. He felt he hadn’t done enough good to undo the harm he’d caused during his youth. Even now, he didn’t feel as if he quite deserved to have such an incredible young woman as a daughter. But he did, and damn if he did not love her fiercely already. He knew she was reluctant to be crowned his heir, but the idea of Darcy denying the protection that came with being a Stark sent him into a panicked state with startling frequency. She had almost died out on that blasted frozen lake. He did not think he would be able to endure it should anything happen to his child. Especially now that he had come to know her, to cherish her. His brave, witty, headstrong girl.

Seeing her so frightened now unnerved him. He didn’t think she’d looked this afraid the day she’d almost died. Kneeling in front of her, he peered up into her eyes. “Tell me what to do, kid. Tell me how I can make today easier for you.” 

He was pleased to see her eyes crinkle as she grinned fondly at him. “Can you make the hundreds of people about to stare at me for an hour disappear?”

Tony’s face pinched in regret. “No can do, Darce. You know these fairy types. Don’t invite them to  _ one _ event and they curse your future children to nasty fates. You don’t want James Jr. turning into a frog on his thirteenth birthday do you?” 

Darcy sighed, but her mouth held the hint of a smile. “Well if you can’t make everyone leave, could you at least find me some liquid courage.” 

Tony grinned at her. “Now  _ that _ I can do.”

 

***

 

Despite the voluminous gown, Darcy felt a bit as if she was floating as she made the long journey through the great hall of the Stark palace. Of course, that may have been partly because of the fae whiskey that she’d been nipping at earlier. Or perhaps because every now and then, she could see James’ face across the hall between the shifting faces. 

As was traditional for a fae wedding, she walked along a meandering path, marked by stones that glittered like diamonds, through the throng of the crowd. It was meant to symbolize the long journey of life that each took before meeting their soon-to-be spouse. On the opposite end of the hall, James was making a similar journey. As they traveled, their paths spiralling closer and then farther and then closer again, the gathered fae watched them with expectation. Many chose to attend in their true forms and it was quite the sight to see such a strange, if beautiful, congregation. Those closest to her path reached for her as she passed them, layering her skin with blessings so that she began to take on a soft silvery glow and her nerve endings tingled with the buzz of magic. 

During one looping curl of her path, she turned the corner to find Peggy and Steven standing beside each other, their hands clasped tightly together. Darcy’s heart flared with warmth to see them together and so beautifully happy. Darcy had grown quite close to her fairy godmother, looked up to her immensely the more she got to know the intelligent, capable woman. There was a very large part of Darcy that took pride in the fact that she had played a small role in reuniting Peggy with her lost love and bringing James his brother back. 

The couple had married shortly after their reunion and it was a beautiful, private affair that Darcy had very fond memories of. In the midst of all these strangers, a tiny pull of jealousy tugged at her that she could not have the luxury of a more intimate handfasting. She quickly brushed the feeling aside. She was already in the midst of the ceremony and it was exquisitely beautiful even as crowded as it was.

Darcy watched as their faces lit up as she drew close to them. She paused briefly in her journey to turn to each of them for an embrace. She kissed Steven on his cheek and was rewarded with a light blush on his ears and a pleased smile on his handsome face. 

“Little sister,” he rumbled in greeting with a tip of his head. 

“Little troublemaker,” Peggy added with a teasing glare. She kissed Darcy on each cheek and then swept her hands over Darcy’s hair and down along her shoulders. A shiver ran through Darcy as Peggy’s blessing threaded itself through her skin. Peggy stepped back smiling gently. “Go,” she urged, turning Darcy back towards the glittering stone pathway. “He’s waiting for you.” 

Darcy did as she was bid and just beyond the bend of the pathway she saw James waiting for her in a small circular section of the path that was surrounded by their closest family and friends. Darcy’s breath caught in her chest at the sight of him. His skin was glowing golden, his eyes a brighter blue than normal, his mouth a deep red that was too beautiful to be possible. He was dressed in an elegant navy coat fit for royalty with gold buttons along the chest, and his legs were clad in black pants that tucked into a pair of sleek black boots. Atop his head sat a stately gold circlet that gleamed prettily in his hair. His attire was astonishingly simple compared to hers, but she felt he looked all the more handsome for it. Her feet hastened on the path, eating the distance between them until he was right in front of her, her beautiful, shining king. Their hands met, fingers twining together as he drew her into a brief, but powerful kiss. They pulled away, sharing bright smiles. 

James leaned his forehead to hers, whispering softly for her ears alone. “I love you.”

She could hear the tears in his voice and her own throat threatened to close up with restrained emotion. “I love you, too,” she whispered. A few traitorous tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry it took me so long to find you.”

He chuckled softly, brushing the tears from her eyes with his thumbs. “You are worth waiting for, my love.” 

A throat cleared to their left and Thor stepped into the circle, leaving Jane standing behind him smiling at the three of them rather soppily. Darcy reached around Thor for her sister, who clasped her forearm, squeezing gently before releasing her. Thor turned to her scooping her in a tight embrace that lifted her from the ground while still somehow managing not to muss her hair or gown. Placing her back on her feet, he turned to James, offering his hand. The two clasped forearms stoically for a brief moment before Thor pulled him into an embrace of his own. Pulling away, Thor clapped him on the shoulder as James glanced to Darcy with a sheepish grin. 

In his warm, rumbling voice, Thor drew the attention of the assembled crowd. “Shall we have a handfasting?” he began with the traditional call.

Darcy and James responded in unison. “We shall.”

“Will it be a blessed union?” Thor’s voice rang out louder, addressing those gathered. 

In a chorus of shimmering, musical voices, the assembled crowd responded, “It will, indeed.”

Thor grinned, clapping his hands together. “Then let’s begin!” 

The decision to have her brother-in-law be the officiant for her wedding had been an easy one. As a crown prince, he was qualified to marry anyone who requested it, but even more so when other fae royalty begged it of him. He was actually one of a very few people that could technically marry James and Darcy, based on the etiquette and laws of the fae world. The list of people that she actually knew personally that could officiate their ceremony came down to just him and her sire. Though she had grown quite fond of Tony of late, she’d known Thor for far longer and he was already family. When she had broached the suggestion of Thor performing the ceremony instead of Tony, her sire had been visibly relieved at not being responsible for such an auspicious occasion. Thor had been predictably ecstatic at her request, kissing her full on the mouth, though chastely, in his excitement. 

Now he stood before them, golden hair braided intricately below his gleaming, winged helm. He looked to truly be a prince of Asgard now, bedecked in shining armor and a heavy, scarlet cloak that hung fetchingly over his shoulders. Mjolnir hung proudly at his hip, buzzing softly with its regained power. From his belt, Thor pulled a long braided cord the color of a ripe plum that Frigga herself had made in honor of the occasion. 

Thor motioned at the two of them. “Step forward,” he commanded.

In unison they obeyed. Darcy stood to James’ left, her shoulder brushing his new metal arm that Tony had gifted him. It was a flawless thing of beauty, lightweight but just as strong, fitting over what remained of the original limb comfortably. Raina had made the genius decision to show it off, removing the left sleeve of his navy coat to reveal the silver arm from shoulder to fingertip.

As Thor began to intone the traditional verses invoking the fates to bless the union, Darcy’s hand found James’. His cool metal fingers felt heavenly against her flesh, overheated as it was by emotion and layers of magic. 

“And so,” Thor said, addressing them. “You are to be bound, by blood, by body, by soul. It is a bond not easily broken, a profound union that can only be undone by death or by the cutting of the bindings, of which there are always consequences. Do you, knowing the solemnity of this oath, willingly bind yourselves, one to the other?”

“We do,” they intoned.

Thor smiled brightly. “So it will be. Bring me your hands.”

They raised their clasped hands to Thor, who took them in one of his meaty hands. With his free hand, he bagan to tie the cord in a complicated pattern around their wrists, before knotting it elaborately over the place where their thumbs rested against each other. “And so it is done,” he said before bending low over their joined hands and placing a kiss to the knot. 

With his kiss, the cord grew white hot, glowing brightly against their wrists and hands for a split second before fading back to its previous condition. Darcy gasped at the pain, but it was gone before she could really register much of it. Thor gave her a sympathetic look and then raised their bound hands above their heads. 

“Bear witness!” Thor’s voice rang out in the hall. “Let all who stand here today rejoice at the union of James and Darcy, and let none bear them ill will as they journey together.” 

A great, raucous cheer sounded, making the air vibrate and sending a thrill down Darcy’s spine. Thor held his hand up, silencing the crowd, then turned back to Darcy and James. “You were born to this world, alone. You are reborn today, no longer alone. From this day forward, you journey together, until your path diverges, be it by death or your will. Go, and be blessed.” Thor stepped back, sweeping a low bow to them, before returning to his place beside Jane. 

Darcy looked to James, who bent to kiss her, a thrumming elation passing between them, and then they stepped forward, following the third stone path that branched away from the circle. The first two paths they had already walked alone, but this one they would take together, hand in hand. Another cheer rose up, this one ringing on and on until the bright clear notes of someone singing cut through the noise. Slowly, one by one, other voices joined it, until the whole hall shook with the most joyous, exquisite music Darcy had ever heard. 

Prompted by the thrilling pace of the song, she and James practically pranced along the path, hands still bound, their laughter blending with the singing as if it were another layer of the song. Giddy and breathless, they reached the arched double doors of the Great Hall, and turning one last time, they bowed to the attendees, then dashed out into the waiting night. 

 

***

 

_ ~Ten Years Later~ _

  
  


The soft, mewling cry of a young child cut through the peace and darkness of Darcy and James’ bedroom. The wail, a familiar one, brought both parents to sitting straight up in bed, with James quickly lighting the candle at his bedside. The glow of candlelight illuminated the distressed form of their four year old son, standing in their doorway, great fat tears spilling over his ruddy cheeks and tangling in the thick dark lashes he’d inherited from his father. 

“Mama, Papa,” he wailed pitifully, stumbling over to their bed in his rumpled nightclothes. 

“Shhh, Jamie. What is it, baby?” Darcy asked, reaching for her son and pulling him over her burgeoning belly to settle him between her and James. 

James blurrily snuggled up to the boy, tucking him into his side and rubbing his metal hand over the his son’s little belly. “It’s alright, Jamie,” he soothed. “Did you have a nightmare?” 

The brunet little boy nodded, snuffling as his tears slowly ebbed. He turned his face into his father’s side burrowing in tighter. Darcy gently brushed the tears from his cheek, stroking his curls back from his sweat slicked forehead. Her mouth turned down at the slight feverish feel of his skin and made a note to have one of the healers look him over in the morning. She leaned close, a difficult feat with her heavily pregnant belly in the way, and brushed a kiss over Jamie’s ear. 

“Do you want to tell us what happened?” she pressed gently. 

The boy shivered and then mumbled into his father’s ribs. “I was playing in the palace gardens and then I was lost and I ran and ran but I couldn’t find the way back and then it was dark. I called for you, Mama, but you wouldn’t answer and then I woke up and it was still so dark--” he broke off in helpless little sobs that tugged at Darcy’s heart. 

“It’s alright, sweet boy,” James murmured in a low rumble. “It was just a dream. You know Mama always comes when you call.” He grinned wryly at his wife over the top of their son’s head. 

For the first three years of their son’s life, Darcy had been adamant that he not have a nursemaid or nanny, despite her newfound royalty, wanting to raise their son without the aid of strangers. With her stipulations, it was necessary to keep the boy close at night, so he had slept in his little princely crib and then his own miniature bed in their room for those three years. At every whimper, every hiccup, every cry, during those first years, Darcy had rushed to her son almost obsessively. It had taken James the better part of a year to gently and lovingly convince her to move their son to his own bedroom next to theirs. 

When the decision had been made, it had been a hard one for Darcy and she had lain many nights listening for her son’s call, whisking away to him at the first hint of his little voice. More often than not, she’d enter her son’s room to find him fast asleep with only her imagination to blame for the cries she was sure she’d heard. Her son had taken to the separation far better than she had, in the way that children can sometimes be more malleable than adults. That fact had torn at her heartstrings terribly, but her husband was a rather sure hand at distracting her from her worries and leaving her deliciously exhausted enough to sleep soundly. With James’ passionate attention, she had quickly seen the benefits of having her son sleep in his own room. 

Darcy narrowed her eyes at her husband’s teasing. “That’s right, darling,” she said tenderly to her son. “Mama will always come when you call.” Her son rolled to turn into her, resting his head just above her swollen belly. She stroked his hair with gentle fingers, humming a soft lullabye. “Shall I tell you a story to help you back to sleep, Jamie?”

“Yes please, Mama.” 

Her son loved the sound of her voice, whether speaking or singing to him, and already he was relaxing against her. It wouldn’t take long for him to fall back asleep. Darcy glanced up to see James watching them both with an incredibly tender look. She reached for him, briefly caressing his cheek and urging him to snuggle in closer, to which he obliged. 

“What do you think, my love? What story shall I tell tonight?”

His eyes glittered at her impishly. “Lady’s choice,” he mumbled, then kissed the palm of her hand. 

“As it should be,” she responded primly. She cleared her throat, dropping into a gentle lulling cadence and began. 

_ “Once upon a time, there were two princes…” _

 

_ ~The End~ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Darcy's wedding dress.](https://holdmecloseandfast.tumblr.com/post/169724752068/notordinaryfashion-ziad-nakad-ss-2018)
> 
> So ends this fairy tale....or does it. 
> 
> I have had some thoughts and plot bunnies floating around in my brain of exploring other fairy tale fusions with the characters in this au and making this into a series of tales. If that is something that you would be interested in, please let me know. Love and joy to all of you.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope everyone had a good time, please let me know what you thought in the comments! <3


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